The sky is indifferent, the sky is kind
always reaching in, uninvited
with long white
cloudy fingers prising
open planks of sternum, one by one
chest rivets pop and sigh –
taste the silver and the blue
tints run, inking through time
eyes feather soft and wide
to gulls glide, natures guards
mount impartial in this space –
the sacred in between
stratosphere and ground
where
cumulus and stratus oversee proud
and free
as druids once served.
Sky House Poetry 