All day the clouds have been
rearranging the furniture.
Now we see the gorgeous blue,
now we don’t. Now we see bright peaks,
(of course they’re peeking out!)
Now they’re draped in lacy antimacassars.
Whenever the wind washes the celestial windows,
my mood does high handsprings and soars.
When the dirty gray laundry lines lower,
I burrow deeper into the mattress
to hide my eyes from gloom.
Gray doesn’t go well with green,
I long to shout, but the misty figures
ignore all remonstrance.
I was satisfied
with how it was this morning.
Why couldn’t they leave it alone?