Come August the clouds change.
What was wisp, haze, limp drapery
Becomes tower, realm, swelling breast.
Ancient youth bearing songs of silent stars.
From flatness of screens we seek them:
Depth beyond depth, and in between
Vast airs, pregnant with blue and orange steel.
What news, wanderers? Have you come
Finally to collect your loyal mercenaries
Desperate deep behind enemy lines?
Or have you come to tide us
With gifts and messages,
Thunderous applause of many labors
Or loving remonstrations
Sculpted from your angry light?
But no, they are mute, watching,
Angels enthralled on divans of eternal silk.
No, few of us are chosen.
Below, we flatlanders carry on
Nourished on the violet of their distant peaks,
Chagrined by softness, yearning for yet more day.
We run our hands along their ridges,
Pink shoulders of some long-dreamed lover,
Turn east to drink the wind off the water,
Turn again to watch them disappear.