A blue carbon sky.
The appearance of cold metal
pressed between heaven
and the dust of nameless souls.
Ocean winds press the corners of
waters, exciting foamy waves
while washing glass thin over rocks
and fallen branches.
Long thin gray clouds,
fingers without hands,
stretch like spilled arrows
pointing to no place;
they fade without resistance
to a rising sun.
Windows open. Curtains lick at fresh air.
Doors unlock and screen doors
slap with motion.
A favorable breeze suggests a fair day.
Roger Singer 