APRIL SKY
On the far shore of afternoon
a chain of yellow sails,
some solid, some striped in red or green,
under dumplings of cloud
that stumble over each other
in a lazy southern sky of unsure hue
until it climbs the dome
and sinks into a blue so deep
no painter’s palette
could ever hope to say.
And written word must be lapidary
as though in diamond carved.
Anything less needs a human voice
to sustain it in its plainness.
April 30, 2005
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