between the top of clouds and
the lid of the sky
sunlight breathes shallow and sits
in thin air
her warm fingers edged with
the weight of majestic rays
higher than mountains, above fields
alone, over hidden cities of busy lives,
the mess and rush of love and hate, real life
not really anywhere,
ripped only by metal wings or feathered flight
mostly, a lonely nowhere
hovering in that secret blue place
I ache and stretch tendrils of tenderness,
could I reach?
feels like atmosphere
The inspiration for this came in part from a poem by Frank Hubeny which conjured the idea of the sun above the clouds having its own little game up there.
I sat on this for a month because I was planning to submit it to a journal callout for ‘immigrant poems’ — it speaks to my experience as an expat/person out of place/away from home. But then I got busy and missed the deadline, oops.