Whisps

I.

I am in preschool the
first time I see a
poem
in the
sky.

A paper kite
backed by
blue felt.

Blue, like the robin's egg my
dad cradled in his palm all the way
home.

A fringe of green.

Trees.

No,
lace.

Perfection.

My tether cut, I
soar
up, up, out.

II.

The next, I am
nine.
Yellowed paint,
hands
obediently
clasped behind my back.

A window,
smooth gray sky,
white snowflakes like
freckles.

Would they melt on my tongue as
easily as my
breath does in my lungs?

As easily as my
feet into the
floor?

The class moves on, and
I am
behind.

Enveloped,
I smile,
quieter.

III.

I saw the sky in your
eyes last
September,
glowing
amber and gold,
my peace and my
promise.

For the first time,
I saw a poem in a person.

Radiance.

I held my face to your horizon,
too long,
too long.

Do not mistake people for the sun.
We are all wisps of cloud.

I pick at a burn that

lingers,

red and raw.

IV.

I see the sky now
in my pillowcase.

Deep,
purple,
velvet.

Black teardrops like
stars.

I wander in this
world of
shadows.

For the first time,
I see a poem in the maze.