The God in the Afternoon Sky

by Vincent R. Pozon

I smell your existence
in the souls of leaves
rising from a small fire
started and kept alive
by a neighbor
assigned by ritual
to keep a few square meters
of the world tidy.

I hear you in the warbler
in the shedding tree
near my window,
the tree that feeds the leaves
the neighbor sweeps
to keep the fire alive.

I see your thinking
as I wallow in the calm
of frozen trees.
There are no children
in the park today.

Your sun declares
the midpoint of the day
unhealthy,
makes the swing seats
and slides untouchable.

There is the murmur
of a plane.
I stay in your shade,
listen to the whinging
of a world that does not
look up at the sky.

They see the cracks
and the gossip of the sidewalk.
They check their screens,
count the hours in traffic,
babble about senators,
rumors, office managers
with a drink or ten a day.

They will not lift their eyes
above the horizon.
They see the nimbostratus,
the political storms,
the news of the bad
and the news made bad
by newsmen.

They do not see
the blue above it,
the plans afoot,
the planes aloft,
the god going on
above them.