Looking down, I read the priceless pages,
Someone else, sweetly, precisely,
Had written their drinkable life on.
And I drank in the appreciation
Of her words, one sentence at a time,
A good, fresh white.
Sensational, the clouds were
Pouring in, filling my cup,
Easing in, with a soft voice that said,
"Look up!"
My eyes glanced, only peeking
At first, toward the sky.
Those rain-bringers harnessing
My irises with glee.
And as if it had been there
All along, the whole long while,
A sparrow drifted into the
Watercolor before me, soaring.
It glided on the currents
That were my own world, too.
And we shared the view,
Him up there, I, eyes lifting further now.
And then the wind found itself
Playing in the cottonwood's hair.
And I smiled, thinking
About how good it probably felt,
Those wind-fingers, sifting through.
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