Skyscape

Pieces of light
are left behind.
A castle
has grown an arm, the keep
is the neck of a serpent,
snapping out diagonally.
Its lower lip protrudes.

The one black cloud is now purple.
A white one is now gray
and shaded like velvet.
The cirrus clouds form their own alphabets
speaking to each other of things
lofty and cold.

Islands of white
glow
brighter than white.
Their shores look warm
and their hills look lovely.
Why do we live in such changeless places?
The birds chide us with every breath.