NINE DAYS OF CLOUDS

Home from the hospital,
you lie in bed studying the sky
as if you expect to see a scar
erasing itself in the distance.
I want to take out my crayons
and deepen the color,
rearrange the clouds like lawn furniture
so the sun will stop tripping over them.
I want to sketch two green trees,
three flowers, and one plain white house
the way children draw safety.
And I wouldn't forget the mother and father,
sprouting between the flowers,
stick figures in bright colors
who smile and wave in approval.

But for nine days, there's been
nothing but bowls and bowls
full of clouds
spilling over the landscape
and into my drawing.
I tell you how much I wanted
to be a child for you,
able to distill the world
into priimary colors and simple lines.
And you laugh, already feeling stronger.

Later, after supper,
we will walk out toward the field
where the black trees
open like fans
and you will point out clouds
deepening into purple,
formations you have seen
resembling oxen, eagles, women
who are not afraid of the dark.

First appeared in Dark Horse.