Cirrus

Only the jostle of conifers holds us to earth.
The sun, scooped from caverns of cirrus, bright in a crux,
has spilt meltwater milk. Sloping foothills of sky,
reflected in flat planes of lake, dark spit of island.
Turbulence in high tides foaming to crescendo,
Oscillating to refracted facets of light.
Playing wave-music scratched into life by a stylus
chipped from the surface of dawn, from the flawed universe.