Slightly yellowed clouds. And slightly golden.
A large ever-present star burning beyond them.
Bright. Drawn back eyes light.
Shiny like the lyrics of a hymn.

Greasing up vapor blocked ridges like a raw egg
boiling across a charcoal color cast iron sky.

From clear and thick to white jiggling flap of skin.
Leftover from a different sort of better fed man.

Clouds grow loose. Less yellow. Less gold.
Only slightly cold. Like that veiled tender hymn.
Awaiting the bird-feathered, bubble-throated
pipe organ of spring to come crashing in.