The sky, scrubbed this morning,
a dusting of bleach powder like clouds.
Is it possible to unravel
a counter-current of imagery?
The tightly-coiled poem,
bound and ready to spring.
Or perhaps excesses where
not everything matches?
It's harder to clean a busy sky
sunrises, sunsets, auroras, varying
storm clouds, tornadoes and hurricanes.
Poets do their best
what with the wild weather,
the scarf that wrapped their hair
lost and flying loose.
Then it clears.
One spectral colour,
polished around the shining sun,
still and fat as a blue porcelain basin.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
-oh, writing process- on Metaphor
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