Revisionist Poetry – “The Quiet Above” – Greying Wisps, v.4

Here, at the edge of myself,
I stand and look up.

Clouds loosen their pale weight
across the blue,
folding and unfolding
like slow-spoken names.

A grey seam passes through them.
Then white.
Then a brighter opening
where the sky shows through
as if it has been waiting
all along.

The noise of the day
withdraws.
The ordinary world
slips a little farther away.

I do not need to move.
The sky is moving for me,
drawing its soft processions
over the stillness of my face.

And I, brief thing,
speck and witness,
feel the wide arrangement of it all—
the earth beneath,
the air above,
the pulse that binds them,
the calm that enters
when I stop asking
to be larger than I am.

I remain here,
struck silent,
as the heavens keep their drifting promise.