a small moleskin notebook
exhumed itself
from a mound of scribbling--
the soft cover sky blue--
except with lavender
lurking, teasing through.
it reminded scribbler me
of a summer Sierra Nevada
sky on certain days (no
days are certain): cloudless--
a sky that seemed too
blue and weirdly made me
yearn prospectively, wanting
never to leave some vague
paradise in my mind--
known, never visited.
I recall staring as if sky
were painted like a vast ceiling
above pine trees. and then, yes,
I dropped the gaze, moved on to work
for wages--dust and heat--
pounding nails, digging dirt,
wheeling mortar; & after work
sleeping off a migraine
in a dark basement,
getting up, sweat dried to shirt,
& scratching in a notebook.
hans ostrom 2021
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