Revisionist Poetry – “At Eye Level with the Sky” – Greying Wisps, v.2

I stand rooted here,
a small upright witness
set beneath the turning heights.

Clouds drift overhead,
soft as torn wool,
grey combed through white,
their slow shapes changing
against the blue.

From this far edge of things
the world grows quiet.
Its grinding noise
falls away
like dust settling in still water.

The clouds pass on
without effort,
without complaint,
crossing the open field of my sight
as if they know
how to move gracefully
through a life.

And I, small as a seed,
held briefly in this vast design,
feel the strange thread
that ties my breathing
to the breathing sky.

So I remain,
head lifted,
wordless,
as the light keeps changing
and the heavens go on
being themselves.