by Chris Biles
When these skies are gray
and filled with tentative rain
I like to look across the bay
at the distinguished glaciers
but not shrouded
by the mist, the fog that drifts
in and out of view, of existence,
like a thought, a hope, a dream
too timid to linger long.
That lethargic ice melts into
the mist, melds into the gray sky,
is that sky
with the mountains penetrating
the indistinguishable, punching
through, reaching for – What?
a Heaven always hidden, in both
blue skies and by the rain?
There are other options above.
Lie on your back, let the sky
ground you, see those mountains
as teeth belonging to a massive
mouth in which you exist.
That gray expanse beyond
is the only other world you can
escape to, tangible, tempting.
Reach for it, grasp that shroud
of cloud, pull yourself into
the nebulous nest that’s always
been only inches from your face,
that’s always called, an echo
within reach. Lie on your back,
let the sky ground you, see
that row of jagged teeth never
meant to rip skin from bones,
and just blink.
You’ll feel your eyelashes brush
against heavy, languid vapor.
But don’t exhale too quickly –
otherwise you may blow away
the steady magic and mystery
of tentative, resolute rain,
and you’ll be returned to a life
of seeing only normal skies
above you. God forbid.