YELLOW SKY
Word Count: 163
I stood beneath a yellow sky, the silhouettes of branches leafed into the canvas swiped with color. I flew within the feathered swirls, felt the brush of birches as I sailed.
Only in my mind.
Reality insists you see it as it is. Yellow grows to green, paints the leaves and fades to blue. Blue is my reality.
How many times do we pass beneath the sun, feel its warm fingers on our shoulders, never looking up to doublecheck it is indeed, the sun, and not some electric heat imposter? When is faith belief and when is it fact we take for granted?
Fifty years times three hundred-something days times hours, minutes; how did it all pass by without my notice? Which instant made it all familiar and stored away as knowledge never needing confirmation; which second flashed from glorious discovery into same old news.
I stand within a yellow sky that crackles with insistence and I know I must look up.
Wonderful poetic prose here, Susan.
Thanks, Susan. This was beautiful. I jumped off your work again this morning.
Thanks, guys. I do love a yellow sky–though it usually comes only in the mid-point of a thunderstorm (maybe that’s the symbolism here?)–so this just came spilling out when I saw John’s image collage.