The world today, flooding intermittently.
Dry now, the sky is being willfully obtuse
about just what it is— the white
of an eye, a means of containment.
Nothing about it says finite.
The city seen from a moderate distance—
old glass, new glass, die-cut gulls.
It’s a low ceiling that we operate under.
In copper-hued plate glass,
the transit of clouds.
OPTIONAL POETRY 
Beautiful.
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I love the scientific precision here, the reference to the white of the eye and then the beauty of the mood in this one. I love the copper light of evenings in spring, then the bluer twilight of summer. (It might well STICK this year, something beyond rain!)
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I was just writing about the white sky! Oh, March, I will not miss you much…
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Very lovely piece! I love the thoughtfulness that goes into your descriptions.
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