Sky at Morning

Donna Pucciani

Today, just white overhead, rain woven with invisible threads in the nondescript fabric of daybreak, like a week made of Mondays.

The sky’s full of waiting.

Scatter, ye gumdrops of sun!

Go back to your too-bright jars of splintered noons! Here is

the luminosity of whatever came before, merging with whatever will come, the secret wishes of a universe caught

between hope and despair.

The past has shredded itself like old newspaper, the future opaque, a blank notebook

awaiting our script, our sighs, foreshortened dreams, our lifelong ambiguities paper boats on the clouds’ slow sailing.

The blank page of morning holds the miracle of ambivalence like a pearl in an oyster, pins belief and incredulity together

on the not-quite-silken dawn, weds the precious with the unfathomable, the salt of the sea heavy between the shore and a school of wide-eyed fish.