Alert to the Sky
is grey this morning.
The pale sky is featureless,
a benevolent, gloved hand
blessing firmly my bent head.
Even the birds are quiet,
but I breathe in a thousand hopes,
the whispered snow-prayers
Thick they ride the surface of the air,
fast and sure as sleds
remembered from storytime illustrations.
Every child a weatherman,
they scan radar, bet on percentages,
eye the thermometer warily.
This is the South
when January has bleached us out
and March is not even a green mist
on our horizon.
I am today’s grown-up,
considering black ice, empty grocery shelves
and downed power lines.
But beneath my responsible patina,
is a child with fingers crossed under mittens,
alert to the sky
to catch the first flake shaken
from our dreams.
Gratefully writing along
with other good folks