The Firmament

Be outside.  The park.  Maybe your backyard.

Know that the dark ones won’t last too long.

Their burdens are heavy – they will let go.

Look for animals, shapes.

Hold onto them.  A string about your tiny wrist.

Your treasure? A milky white balloon.

Lie down on the grass.  Flutter an angel in the dew.

Spoon with your lover; quietly nuzzle your neck into the crook of his arm.

Roll down the grassy knoll, over pebbles, sticks, gum wrappers.

Run as fast as you can to the top of the hill. Be out of breath.

Taco your tongue. Sip the crisp green air.

Stretch out on the earth.  Settle your body into the spongy meadow.

Wear your sunglasses, a floppy hat.  Splay your toes.

Observe with childlike wonder.  The misplaced toddler emerges.

Ignore your mother’s plea; naptime, come now meine kinder.

Pluck that verdant blade, whistle through your thumbs.

Diurnal constellations abound.

Unlearn the names, the science.  

Abandon adulthood.

This is how to look at clouds.