We often have extraordinary skies. Right now, looking eastward out the window as a very late sun is setting out of my view, the sky is a variety of grays and blues I cannot describe. Three days ago it the moon rose early at at just this hour into a slightly rosy sky and I had to take the photo above.

During this busy but contemplative day I have been thinking of poetry that I am reading and also of the wonderful poet who died in February. I used to say she was my favorite living poet. Alas. I tell my friends about Wislawa Szymborska, they agree her poetry is wonderful, her voice unlike anyone else's. I have so many favorites -- many are longer than I want to copy into here. So here's a fairly short one that is not necessarily typical but then it's not atypical either.

Going Home

He came home. Said nothing.
It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong.
He lay down fully dressed.
Pulled the blanket over his head.
Tucked up his knees.
He's nearly forty, but not at the moment.
He exists just as he did inside her mother's womb,
clad in seven veils of skin, in sheltered darkness.
Tomorrow he'll give a lecture
on homeostasis in megagalactic cosmonautics.
For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep.