It’s the wind that drives the sky to one side
and herds the stars along, and pulls
the thread out of the needle.
A lifetime frugally spent
but gone all the same, and the chair
that has become your tame little horse
tethered beneath the wandering sky.
The grandchildren dash through the room
like comets leaving a brilliant trail.
They have left the door wide open
but the wind will close it.

Wherever we go the clouds have preceded us.
Clouds of the vast transformation.
Thin clouds that thinly cross the bald dome.
Clouds like fish bones, like ribs
protecting the lung of the atmosphere.
Sometimes they are long words in the sky,
a sentence finished beyond the horizon.