There’s a quality to the sky right now that really makes me think
that this isn’t a world we’re living in,
it’s an incomplete stage.
The naked tree branches are outlined sharply,
but only because the colors contrast,
not because it feels that either sky or skyward-reaching
cellulose-and-lignum skeletons
are actually different, real things.
This winter day, with little wind and flat light,
feels as if nature has tired of life
and wants to play at entropy for a while.
It is queerly exhausting.
No expectations.
No sense that change is possible,
though I yearn for spring with bone and blood and breath and heart.
There is only an eternal-feeling now.
Doesn’t living in the moment call for a living moment?
Shouldn’t there be some weight, or direction, or imperative?
Instead there is not even indifference.
Just a flat light, and an incompleteness,
as if someone has forgotten to paint the sky.

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