western

the sky is one rippling
cable knit sweater
a sweet faded old lavender pastel
the twisted knits blurred as
the farbic is washed and rewashed
and cleared into a chlorine clear
hard blue topaz set in prongs
and ruffled only by
the lightest whisps
of spare cotton blown about
that catches the light this afternoon
a cashmere sheared a millenia ago
and much longer still
longer than I could possibly imagine
but would like to, even with the fragile limitations
of this human mind
how far beyond
the lilac dye spilled and diluted across
that far stretched space does splay
behind me the western sun
makes mauve inside the boundaries
above and beyond where I stand
in front, along
the wall of untouchable clouds
that when it sinks to Earth
is only a white mist
so it has more beauty far above
me and the rolling hills
though it looks soft and warm
as the sienna tints back toward the west
spread in arcs and visible bands
across the fabric of the sky
weilding a loom
that ties in bands
of heavenly brass
wrapped in the muted fabric
along the east