to the farmer
a promise
a relief
a cause for prayer
and yet
to the citified cynic
depressingly gray
and unusual–those large
dark clouds
against the brilliant blue
they hold back
as I start my long drive home
then, suddenly
let their contents drop
like a suitcase being opened
while held upside down

to the east, I see
impossible mountains
over the lake
snowcapped peaks
like stiffly beaten eggs
gorgeous white fluff
against it, skyscrapers
Dali-like, bright, shining
standing tall
even in the clouds

by the time
I reach my destination
the sky has metamorphosed twice
from blue
to gray
to irridescent orange
the dread of wet-weather travel
and is replaced by an ancient
of the infinite
and ultimate creativity
that is God


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