Painting the Sky

by: Johnny Slate

I stepped out for a smoke at dusk,
I find myself doing that a lot now,
When I noticed how the setting sun
Shot taut photon carpets of light
To cover the clouds in receding shades of gold.
I pointed
and my finger,
Like a paintbrush,
Dipped into the rich palette of the sky.

Surprised, I was content with swirling colors at first
Until a shape leapt out at me
From my rippling canvas.

The sun,
It's bronze plate slipped lower on the horizon.
Alarmed, I worked furiously,
To flesh out those shapes,
All too familiar to the touch.

I tore up the gates of heaven:
A scintillating rainbow,
And inverted it,
And pinched it at the middle
Like the precipice of a divine peak.

A drop of rain
(Or was it a tear?)
Anointed my cheek,
So boldly
I gathered furious storm clouds overhead,
And raked my fingers through them,
Creating midnight tributaries
And wispy slants of lighting sharpened style.

I smudged rouge mist,
Gathering it together
In a delicate kiss.
Higher I traveled
Pulling just enough white
For a finely crafted nose.

Plucking two passing doves,
I placed them equidistant in the sunset
And stood back to admire my work:
Your sparkling visage,
Fading in the twilight,
Until finally
The night wrapped me in a sleepy cloak
And the birds flew their mysterious coops,
And all that was left
Were two winking stars
Smiling down at me,
Where your eyes had once been.