Under a Cloud-Freckled Sky
by Vaughn Neeld

We lay on a quilt spread on the wayward grass.
Never as uniform or well-behaved as cultivated lawns,
ours defied taming, determined to stay wild and free.

We spread-eagled beneath the cloud-dabbled sky,
daydreamed, or leg wrestled, or built cloud fantasies–
floating castles, flying pigs, grotesque goblins.

As images drifted into mist, we studied
the swirls, specks, ribbons that laced
the fluid in our eyes–chains of detached retinal cells
linked like boxcars, or diatoms, or sisters holding hands.

What were they? Why were they there?
Were they alive? Would we go blind
if we gazed too long at the sun?

Finally, on a dreamy, long, delicious afternoon,
we slept–adrift–among the wayward grass,
the images beneath closed eyes, the cloud-freckled sky.



 

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