The Sky is a Paint Chip

The sky, today, is a paint chip.

How sophisticated Nature is,
To leave the sky simple,
This fine spring day,
To recognise the relationships,
Between depth and breadth,
Austerity and childish simplicity.

How can the entire sky be so solid,
When repetition does not exist below?
How can the entire sky be uninterrupted,
When there are storms to be wrought and confusion below?

We are protected by a baby blanket of blue,
For how could we face day after day,
An infinite universe?
The glares of an infinite number of stars?
The constant reminder that we are but one place,
In an infinity of "somewhere-elses?"

Our trees silhouetted against the universe.
We would lose our ownership of the sun,
For it wouldn't be,
Fixed in our milky sky,
But instead something burning out there,
That we're close enough to marvel at.

Thank goodness, really,
That the sky is blue today.
That sometimes it stays like this for hours at a time.

Because we look at it,
And we look no further.
And then we turn back to looking into our own world.
We live under this opaque sky,
And deal with our own problems,
Painting what we can’t take,
To make it go away.