Written on Inauguration Day

Even winter comes as a relief:
the blue sky, the tissue cloud
after months of rain, clouds
stained blue black, not cold enough
for snow.

Until then you believe that white
is only a memory, the sky
cannot be blue, and the yard
will always be sodden, green, streaked
with mud.

One day you will look out.
The sky will be painfully blue,
one cloud, flat, empty, floating free,
far from you or the sun. Drying
out, you will walk, just around
the block, wearing your fur-lined gloves
and sunglasses.