I am an inside sort of person--
not my father, who, born a hundred years ago
would surely have built a cabin in the wilderness
with his own hands -- felled the trees,
stretched animal-skin over timber-frame for shelter.
I would come much later, once the drafts have been sufficiently caulked
and the fire built. I would bring books
for the bookshelf.

Yet there is a peculiar salve in a clear sky--
my sheltered spirit begins to grow cabin-feverish, feel contained,
and a small dose of sky-gazing--
a nap on the lawn, a barefoot game of ultimate,
stretches this ungainly heart within me
toward the upward un-limits of pale blue.

I grew up mostly under cloud-cover,
but must have some animal memory of the Texas sky
of my father's childhood. It is a peculiar prayer,
this sky-gazing, and I wonder about
the first commandment. But it is a prayer often
and quickly answered, bringing healing
I didn't know I needed. My thanks and praise ascend
through the pale blue land of my soaring
and off into the heavens. For what I so love to receive
let me be truly thankful.