Looking up at the cover of clouds,
I am reminded of being a child
Of fanciful games played under blankets,
The haze of cloth obscuring the light.
Those games would end, always,
When the air grew heavy and thick
And the imagined roof became only an obstacle,
Keeping me from the cool, clean air.
And I would rise up and wave my hands
And shake off the oppressive shroud.
Under the cover of clouds, now, though
I can only turn my head down,
Pull my collar up against the wind
And hope tomorrow,
There will again be the sky.
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