The Language of the Sky
by Gideon Burton
Forget the patterned ink that stains your books;
you need to learn the language of the sky,
to read the streaming evening as it cooks
the creamy cloud banks till they steam and fry
in silent streaking amber, clots of felt,
inverted seas of textured, tissued fire.
You need to parse the colors as they melt:
the code for ochre as the light retires,
the cues for blue vanilla made opaque,
for indigo, for charcoal's smeary smoke.
You need the signs and syntax for the ache
remaining, how to throttle absence cloaked
by moonless midnight, tightened like a scroll
in hieroglyphics only God controls.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License. Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - burnblue