| All last winter near the holy height the pale blue skies blew thin and chaste. Their clouds were refugees in flight, that pressed each other in their haste, and colliding, merged and darkened right above us, spilling droplets as they raced. They gave the stones a slippery sheen and turned the tan soil startling green. Now here the Midwest spring has come with still clouds stretched across the sky. Their spectrum is just gray and dun, in unbroken gloom they overlie the flat expanse of paved humdrum and then they pour all day and night. This placid corner of the world’s at rest. Far from the sacred mountain is my nest. |
| Created on 6 May 2024, updated on 29 May 2024 by Samuel Ethan Fox |