for Pam Jaska, because she asked. Merry Christmas.

Sometimes, nearing twilight,
the blue sky shimmers.
And I imagine wearing
that dress electric,
charging through the king’s men,
their consorts dropping tears
into glasses of champagne.

The blue light never drowns
those golden bubbles, though.

Sometimes, during the day,
the sky is clear, the sun shines.
And an old man sits under a tree
and draws into his Book.
And I wonder what he sees.