The sky was Maxfield Parrish blue
with some clouds daubed in for show,
a mix of mauve and lavender,
light gray and dirty yellow.
One could imagine, at the lake,
slyphs slipping from their homes
to sport with shy and tender mermaids
in the shorefront foam.
The problem, though, with Parrish,
is that the world is rarely found
as neat and tidy organized
as where his skies touched ground;
more likely, as I found today,
the glowing radiant sky
finds some rough, rude horizon
to dye purple, cloak and hide.
11 JUN 2005
