The sky was afire, showing off what colours of blush she could afford our compliments.
A golden smear here, a bronze dusting there. Tangerine followed closely.
The sky was full of peace.
She loudly said nothing but truly beautiful, heavenly soft poetic puffs of glowing cloud.
She showed off so much… That I wanted to build a ladder so tall that the rungs would disappear into her softness.
The sky was giving love. She loved everything that was touched by the light she borrowed from the sun.
She loved me. She loved every blade of grass that dared turn its lengthy being towards her.
She loved every tree holding the ground firmly with its talonous roots and reaching for every inch of sky with its needy branches.
The sky welcomed me home, again. And reminded me that wherever I am, under her skirt. I’m home. Whether she’s darkened by night or caressed by every shade of light, I’m always becoming. Becoming powerful. Even in my falling. May my falling be the most courageous climb… into the power of my existence.
written by Frank Malaba