The Painter of Skies

Hey, there’s my heart. 

Pointing its cinders to the sky.

Several skies, many: 

the seven-days-a-week sky,
the infant rose, the nest of rusty scarabs,

the stormy and the lunatic, the rainbow,
the captive sky, the lattice-cloud,
the last teaspoon of honey,
 the lengthening dark.

Enduring, the heart
against the ephemeral every-sky.

And if it looks too black, 

Too spent, too wispy, 

That heart of mine...

Unmoved, unmoving

not enough alive:

Look again, love.

Come before dusk: you may catch me

 - fingers of charcoal, words for kindling,
ember-eyes,

lighting up clouds,

and swirling, brushing, weaving.

Quick,

there's much to do:

to fill the daily canvas of drab blue 

the tired white, the avenues of gray

with copper charms and flutes of fire,

to trace celestial dance steps

claret on cobalt
gold over cerise,

to rouse an exaltation 

of scarlet stories

and set them free 
to fly 
across your sky.