“Look at her. The pink is all gone,”
says Alice at sunset.
“Isn’t she marvelous. How did
she do that so fast?”

“This morning she took the sun
and used it to turn herself into
a flamingo. She is so clever.”

She gives of herself in such quantity.
She wraps me to her, holding me
closely and strongly like a mother,
she protects with her cupped hands
all the living
and conducts the symphony of storms
from her high podium.

I am subject to her many moods
and yearn for the capriciousness of them –
to accept them.

Alice and I
are in love with the sky.