Revisionist Poetry – “Greying Wisps” – Greying Wisps, v.3

I stand still
where the earth holds me,
and the sky opens above
like a thought not yet spoken.

Clouds drift there—
grey-cuffed, white-bright,
soft bodies
unfastening themselves
across blue distance.

The world lowers its voice.
Even the noise of living
thins to a murmur,
and I find myself
inside a hush
large enough to hear.

The clouds move
with no labor at all,
as if the wind were only
a secret agreement
between matter and air.

I am small.
No more than a blink,
a passing note
in the long music of weather—
yet I feel the pull
of every drifting thing,
the invisible joining
of breath, light, and time.

So I stand here
while the sky changes shape,
and something in me
changes with it.