A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

The thunderheads were bruised

a deep violet, pregnant

with impending precipitation,

the electricity almost palpable in the air.

I love them, I said,

they’re so beautiful.

Yes, he said, but where is the blue sky?

Oh, it’s still there,

I assured him, it’s just hiding behind them.

The clouds can be yours, he told me,

if you like them,

but the blue sky is mine.