The rain is over, the sky

has fallen in bright blue pieces:

you can no more pick them up

than before they fell

becoming sky-shards,

segments, a sliver

bisecting the road

with its shining chasm

which you straddle,

look into and see the way

the crowns of tree after leafless tree

have come down with it

crowding this narrow sky-pond

like underwater vegetation:

threads of what went on overhead

catch at the eye

wherever you gaze on ground,

each seam of light,

each bright stitch

a reminder of that perfection

before the heavens fell

which now—night coming on—

lie holding the stars.