My Favorite Sky
The sky was a rare breed the other day.
It was covered with the sweetest, teeniest, tiniest,
fluffiest sheep for as far as the eye could see.
Had they had arrived at the time of the candy cotton sunset
I would have wondered whether or not I was dreaming.
These are my favorite clouds, they’re the best clouds.
They bring with them a cool, dry breeze
that gently touches the chimes among my eaves,
a breeze that brushes against my window hoping to come in.
There will never be a day when I’m too busy for their visit.
The breeze reminds me of my grandpa.
He taught me how to listen to the weather around us.
How a look at the sky, or a touch of the Great Lake
could tell us for certain whether the fish would bite or
if it would be better to go back home and grab a grape Fanta.
Today the sky is back to it’s usual blue.
It’s pretty, but it’s not unusual.
Since that day, I’ll wake every morning and look to the sky
in hopes that maybe just maybe the tiny, fluffy, sweet sheep
will be there, and with them they’ll bring the perfect cool breeze,
and the perfect, cool breeze will be here to stay.