The Color of Sky

 I weave the fabric of days,
lost and gathered into quilts
and downey comfort,
to be the art of our lives
with no question of unexplainable value.

The trough where we feed the creatures
of burden is clean.
There is no mildew or foul smell
in the stalls or on the earth.
There is only the soft sounds of a warm barn
and the breath of all who sleep
is peaceful and full of life.

When spring comes again
the earth will take me by the hands
and ask me to touch the warmth of the body
with healing and seeds of new life.

When the sun melts all that is frozen
it will be more than enough
to open my mouth
and sing again.
These songs will carry me
until everything is green
and there is no mistaking
the fragrance of cotton, or wool,
or flax the color of sky.