I Hate The Sky

Serenely blue, roiling black
or clearly midnight shaded,
through all of it there is
the presence of white.

The light of stars and thunderbolts
and glaring sunshine brilliance
fills the atmosphere and covers all
with placid indifference.

What does the sky care if the Earth
rolls to and fro, restless in a
midnight slumber or shaking
in noontide's laughter?

The sky blankets all
and only if a strong wind blows
or if a mountain hurls
up the contents of Earth's bowels
into its unfurrowed countenance,
only then will the sky answer.

Seething in suppressed emotion
until suddenly the white burst
of hot feeling changes
the way we look at the sky.