Sky
I wonder why people wish to fly?
There is nothing so spectacular
about the sky.
Only blank canvas
painted with
the sun or the moon.
With stars.
With clouds.
And sometimes the flicker
of fickle lightning.
I wish to remain
firmly planted on the ground.
Barefoot,
digging into the mud,
sand,
or gentle blades of grass
that tickle the skin between each toe.
I prefer the ground
where the towering trees
that tease the sky first sprout.
On the ground where
wild and savage things
are born,
live, die, and decay.
Where you experience the range
of nature that rages and loves
and comforts and morphs seemingly
in an instant mirroring
my own nature.
I, on occasion,
turn cold to all in my world.
My summers can rage uncontrolled.
My tears can fall without warning
and wet the ground.
My eyes are clouds.
None of this is truly appreciated
from the sky.
Only on the ground where everything ends.
It is the conception of the end
that makes the beginning and middle
so cherished.