The sky seamstress is so mercurial
She can never decide on a finished work
Starting with a vast, blank blue canvas
The raw cotton floats into view
When its fibers are stretched
Into thin, wispy veils,
It's a sign
She will soon weave a grey, woolen blanket
Whether her customers enjoy the darkened drizzle
or not
Or perhaps, she is frustrated with a mistake
A missing stitch, not enough fabric?
Throwing a clumped draft aside in rage
Only for it to grow and twist
Instead of releasing a simple drear,
It could house destruction
But, the sky seamstress is mercurial
She will brush away the failure
And begin the cycle again.