The sky, going home, was much like the sky
I saw, leaving. All else was changed.
Changed like a chameleon or like
the water at Cana? I could use
the wine of miracles right now.
I could get drunk upon it. The sky
may be drunken too, forgetting
its way home until tomorrow
morning. Then all things will be
as we remembered. Sleep on it.
Stephen Brooke ©2016
This is one of those pieces where I wrote the first two lines and then stared at them for a couple weeks. Then the rest came in a few minutes. I guess I just needed to figure out what the poem was about.