Before the clear day
I forgot the sky was blue
and stubborn,
refusing to be anything but blue.
Trees are afraid to fly,
not because they might fall to the ground, mind you,
but up into the sky.
To them
the blue veils the horror,
the strums of starlight,
where nostalgia is a padded room.
My uncle was like a tree,
and my mother hated him for it.
A stranger once started a conversation by saying,
“That’s the thing about trees.”
And I felt like I’d met him,
but rather than worry I just looked up.