At thirteen, you discovered cerulean
and then the manganese dimension
so that clouds could sublime their way
across the blues you could believe in, fly through.
Now you paint storybook pretendings
with pranks of light and swirl from deep edges
the tornadic unsettling, thunder’s engine.
Anciently, cumulus snag in your dreamer’s tree.
Aurora’s salutation, dedicated to love’s cadmiums,
straight shadows rumple on the landscape.
You herd colors into evening’s benediction,
the gauntlet of prickly stars, dollop of moon.
Painted with the seriousness of drought,
there is the chance every goddess uses
to her advantage granting the veridians of young lovers.
Umbers of earth give clouds their grounding.
You are the custodian of clouds, edit their diaries,
know rain as their ultimate sacrifice,
but wash your earthy hands with earthy spirits,
the brushes are disappointed, the palette is tired.
You are thoroughly evaporated,
struggling to make the diaphanous behave.
Frederick Wilbur has authored two poetry collections, As Pus Floats the Splinter Out and Conjugation of Perhaps. His work has appeared in many print and on-line reviews. He is poetry editor for Streetlight Magazine.