I saved this photo I took from the car on our last trip west
for a year--until I could find a poem to suit it.
How the Sky is Made
We have camped out, eaten, filled ourselves,
Told the best stories we know,
And gotten tired. All of us sleepy,
We douse the fire, and watch as so much of it
Gets up, those sparks and bits and chuffs of smoke:
They suddenly if wearily rise to make the sky,
Go to their second jobs as stars in the night, smoke
Wandering to work as clouds in the horizon of the next day--
We let them go. We ourselves, so weary, get ready
For the hard work of sleep, in which next days are found.
A Small Story About The Sky,
Copper Canyon Press, 2015, Page 90.
All right, some camping out, some sleeping, five two-line stanzas, lines that grow longer
and a little bit more sleepy towards the end of the poem. Capital letters
at the beginning of each line. Why is it so pleasing?