The sky I was born under
hangs grey, suspended like
a crushed velvet curtain
strewn with pale cotton on
an early cold January day.
The corn is cleared from the fields
yellow stalks rotting under
soil that will live again in May,
dusty soybean fodder dissolving
into mud.
The sky I was born under
searches in vain for warmth from the sun
living instead wrapped in grey wool
steeling itself against the winter chill.
Snow falls and remains, pushed aside,
huddling in pools around the bases
of winter trees, bare of leaves,
slumbering in their trunks.
The sky I was born under
always remains, floating silently
around the back corners of
my mind, reminding me of home.