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Sitting.
Accentuating loneliness,
or appreciating time.
Sitting outside,
feeling the breeze touch my skin,
watching noxious jet-streams
kiss the expanse of the sky.
They burn by, leaving a scar on the blue above me.
Tiny helicopters fall from limbs above
spinning, always spinning.
never stopping until they embrace the ground.
Soft staccatos resonating with the stark cobblestones.
I pick one up,
and drop it.
And watch as it whirls to the ground
again, and again, and again.
I wish I were as tall as the sky so it would
spin forever.
The sky, always the same familiar blue.
And puffs of creamy breath,
always different, always exciting.
Today the clouds are brush strokes,
white against blue.
Blue like someone’s eyes,
someone I know.
White streaks against their irises.
Next time I see that person,
I’ll tell them that their eyes resemble the sky.
By Gracie Katzmar
Posted 05/31/2009 |