Upon the wet rain-washed cement of the old pathway near the church is a small puzzle piece. It shows an image of the sky with a little puffed cloud, brilliant white in the sunshine. Although I see the cardboard already soaking in the water and curling upward at the very edge, I imagine it is a piece of the real sky that has fallen to Earth. I pick it up and hold it high, seeing how it is a perfect match for the blue and white above. I guess some puzzles really are that simple and one piece is enough.
The depth of the sky's blue is as our love, that only over the years to we notice the strength of the hue. Up close it is as clear as pure water, yet when we see the miles it is the blue of fairytale dreams.
The blue sky is my mother's eyes; it is the light that dances in the inbetween, the precious time when night is suspended.
The blue sky brings music to my steps, as if it composes them into a steady rhythm to compliment the birdsong. I imagine it as an open page of heavenly hue, an invitation for my creative soul to rise up, to fly.
If I could weave the blue sky, tease out sacred strands into a fine cloth, it would be the greatest treasure to my soul. For as she blankets the earth, she watches over creation, and there is serenity in such wonders.
The blue sky is my mother's duvet, the one she would wrap around me when we sought each other's comfort. In summer or winter it's all the same, the hue so bright, as was her love.
This blue sky is the echo of my porcelain soul: tough, humble and pretty. It takes on the subtle changes as the day matures, an ever evolving artistic palate.
Blue sky, perfect protecting dome, that plays with the sunlight on these fine days, promises to be the canvass to our laughter. It is here, with head in the silky grass that time both stops and stretches to the infinite, the green and the blue showing each other's beauty in their contrast.
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