Here is summer’s sailcloth blue stretched from hem to hem;
and there, a gauze apron, a sheer skirt

afloat
               below indigo.

How thinly stitched this perfect sky seems ‒
liable to tear itself loose and leave me
with the wet grey of winter wool
just when I thought all my cotton clouds
were pressed and folded into tidy cumulus stacks.

Something wants to rip this silk into rag-edged scraps,
let loose a hailstorm of fret and frayed bindings.
Unravel the rick-rack ridges of updraft, the thready strands.

I’d just as soon put down my pressure-foot and reinforce
each flimsy seam. No more falling apart in the wash
of rain, in the fluff-and-tumble of wind.

I’ll have this blue calm ceiling sewed-up tight
before the next gale blows it apart &mdash
the funnel-cloud zippered down,
the blizzard needled, the cyclone
gathered into orderly ruffles.
A doubled knot, back-stitched,
a dress of clean-edged days.