The Sky Writer
by Derek Hart
Thursday, October 25, 2001
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Lazy summer days watching the clouds go by.
Sometimes, when the wind is just so.
When the time is just right.
When the heart is open.
The mind can read the visions in the sky.
Clouds cross the heavens in patterns.
Birds sing a song we can understand.
Everything we touch, we feel.
As young in years, did you lay on your back?
Gazing into blueness, chewing on a stem?
Shapes of life in each white puff.
Have you tried it lately?
Do you see faces and animals and crazy things?
Or just the threat of rain or snow?
Innocence lost in the trials of life.
Shuts the windows to joy and carefree glee.
Would you pray to gain it back?
Up there, where there is no care, the sky writer sits.
Making pictures of sailing ships and elephants.
Of candy canes, tigers, school day chums, and trains.
Constantly changing in the winds of your mind.
You will see what your mood commands.
“Come away with me,” says the sky writer each time.
“Return to the secret place of your soul.”
So lay down on some grassy knoll.
Forget about what anyone might think.
Lose yourself in the glory of childhood dreams.
Rise to the occasion and remember your story.
Stay in touch with your purest of desires.
And look now and again for your friend up so high.
The sky writer will spin for you a yarn or two.
Lest you forget who you are.