Who Paints The Sky?
A poem
I wonder who paints the sky,
blue and white, with a gold and silver eye.
The trees seem to know, with their reaching leaves,
and the mountains, biting the horizon,
and the rain crying to a grateful earth,
and the lake’s reflective praise.
I wonder who paints the sky.
Sometimes with pink and purple ribbons.
Sometimes spanned with rainbows.
Sometimes plain and vivid.
Does he set his palette the night before?
Or with his dawning mood?
Red with anger, grey with sorrow.
It can’t be just for me.
It’s too wide, and long, and deep.
It’s for the sparrows, and you, and the basking skinks.
It’s for the eyes and dreaming.
I wonder who paints the sky.
The same sky every day.
Every day it’s different.
Every day it’s new.
But it’s the same sky for everybody.
For those who stare.
For those who look away.
For those who sit or walk for miles.
For those who labor.
For those who play.
I’ve seen oceans, hills, and forests,
waterfalls and valleys cut with rivers,
temples and skyscrapers and painted ceilings,
all the monoliths of man,
all the beauty he can craft with art and architecture.
But nothing leaves me so inspired,
as the canvas stretched above me.
In a gallery, on the corner of the galaxy,
I wonder who paints the sky.
