Ten-Thousand-Foot Blue Sky

Over his right shoulder, a small cloud appears,
from nothing to something.

We talk
about easy things.

The cloud doubles in size.

I pass him the water,
watch it glisten on his lip.

The cloud billows at its edges,
blows, changes shape.

We don’t talk about the children
we cannot have.

Amoeba-like, the cloud divides.

With the back of his hand he wipes his mouth,
tells a joke, grins white.

The cloud thins, fades, returns to blue.

I brush my fingertips against his cheek.

A patch of blue breathes white.
Out of nothing, something.

–gail ford

One Response to Ten-Thousand-Foot Blue Sky

  1. Pingback: Ten-Thousand-Foot Blue Sky | gail a. ford

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