The kind of clear winter day
When air seems unrealistic.
Only nothingness could be so transparent.

Weary from the outside in
from sagging limb to lagging soul
every fiber and nuance of my being seeks
a green pasture
a quiet water
a moment to be refreshed.

Tonight the clouds are made of molten lava
rippling toward the horizon
trying to defy the chill of dusk
which inevitably overtakes them
cooling their passion to a steely blue-grey.