The sky wears many faces.
One edge burns with morning,
lifting gold out of silence,
while another lowers its velvet lid,
gathering stars into the folds of night.
I watch it turn,
and it feels like my own life turning—
what looks like division
is only a shifting of light,
a single cloth,
blue and black stitched together
by the slow hand of time.
Clouds wander as messengers,
and I wonder what they carry for me:
a memory of dawn
woven into midnight’s sleeve,
the hush of twilight
slipped into the throat of noon.
And still, beyond its painted veil,
there is a further depth—
not distance, but presence,
something vast enough to hold
all I’ve lost and all I’ve yet to find.
A sky beyond sky,
where light and shadow
are no longer rivals,
but companions circling endlessly,
teaching me that every ending
is only another way
of beginning again.
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