Writing Home

by Ray Waddle

The old ever-remarked sky
warms us (do we realize this?)
beneath a ceiling steady,
blue and unbudging,
It sweeps its harbor of all ideas,
clears the way for galleon cloud fleets
sailing by, wanderers across
the oceanic civilization of wind.
Thirty years it's been since
I looked up, absorbed the height,
the sky's shocking lack of commentary,
then turned to write home faithfully
that this is what it's like to touch and
see and feel on earth, and believe.