Somewhere north of the valley
the great sheet of the sky gathers unmade. Billows
of linen tumble over linen and
sing praises of mornings too frantic to
spend smoothing. It’s as if the saints rolled
over and realized that it was an hour
later than they thought, with just enough time to make it without being actually late,
so they leapt, like children, through the bedroom of the heavens, tossing aside
cumulous pillows into corners for all the laymen below to see.
There’s only ever just enough time;
not that we need to rush, you see—
we think we can start early, plot all our moves, but
in the end the bell of the sun rings bright and we know
that Providence knew
the whole time
that the heavens must be flung
in a white pile
to sooth the so-called ordered earth.
Betsy K. Brown is a poet, essayist, critic, and curricular writer. Her work has appeared in many journals, including First Things, The Classical Outlook, and AWP’s The Writer’s Notebook. You can read more of her work at betsykbrown.com.
