An Apocalyptic Sky

Yes, it was also beautiful

Smoke and ash fall from
fierce forests fires and descend
on summer in the Northwoods
like a weighted wool blanket offered
on a hot day – unwelcomed, unwanted.

For the briefest moment, the
ordinary becomes extraordinary – 
the sun alternates between peach and papaya;  
the sky, the color and thickness of butter,
begs the whittler to grab his knife,
to carve a hole for summer to breathe.

This spectacular sky is beautiful
and it's apocalyptic,
two words sharing the same sentence
for the first time, inspiring
awe but something else too – the
unease that comes from feeling small
in the grips of a force far from comfort.

I turn to Mother Nature as a child
who has eaten the last of the ice cream. 
I ask for forgiveness from past sins,
now revealed in the surreal.
I beg for rain and wait. 

The sky rains ash, not water. 
I watch the horizon disappear even
as the sun still stands in the sky,
I hear the wind sigh as if to say,
I’m so sorry. It’s out of my control.