Thought Tapestries

What bores you?

I tire of the tireless azure,
that flat, unblinking stare of noon—
a canvas stretched too taut, too true,
with nothing left to chase or ruin.

Give me instead the layered slate,
the pewter quilt of brooding cloud,
where greys collide in quiet debate
and whisper secrets to the crowd.

A morning born in softest ash,
then bruised to charcoal by midday;
the wind arrives in sudden flash,
scattering light in disarray.

Here comes the squall, a silver knife
that slices through the heavy air,
then parts to spill a slant of life—
a shaft of gold through thinning hair.

The sky is never finished art;
it turns, it weeps, it burns, it mends.
Each mood a stroke upon the heart,
each change a story without end.

I love the grey that holds the storm,
the promise stitched in every seam—
for in its flux, the world is warm,
alive with what the still skies dream.

And living on this rugged coast,
where ocean meets the clouded rim,
I watch the heavens play the host—
and every shift feels like a hymn.