January 28, 2016Contrails
One answer lies in the tropospheric molecules scattering
short blue waves and vapor meeting minus-sixty. But
what’s the burning question? What orders the eye, the
brain, to catch all the colors after rain? What comprehends
a handful of sand, November’s endless branches of birds?
I’m bowed down by the simply phenomenal, the asymmetric
stain of mulberry crushed on concrete, what was sown that
now reveals its long green line. Yesterday, mountainous
clouds turned our Midwest horizon into I-76’s Wiggins’s
vision of the Colorado Rockies, and any headfirst plunge
off my cautious stage in this life supplies the slickest look
at all I never see. Forget insipid interpretations, how the jet
streaking seven miles above your sweetheart blazes the trail
connecting her to you. In a blink, or maybe in a day, those
contrails, heavy as the thin air they cleave, will leave you,
expanding, disbandingly unparalleled into a marbled blue.
from Ekphrastic Challenge