by Carol Edwards
~for Dad
Dad asked me to tell him what
the clouds looked like from above
nostalgic for his flying days
as we watched a rainstorm roll in.
I said, “White, Dad.” He laughed.
But for one that used to feel
the freedom of wings, only to have
them clipped, flippancy is unfair.
Yes, white, but tinged shale and blue
oddly shaped stacked boulders at first,
then hills and valleys of bushy topped trees
against a molten bronze stained horizon.
They sweep down to jagged flat points
their abrupt edge reveals the ground below
as though the air were ocean
and the checkered fields the sea floor.
We turn eastward, our back to the light
ahead only the black oncoming night
the rare red blink of another plane
far in the distance, a rusty haze behind.
