It's Still Life

Rewritten from a multi-prompt version posted yesterday.

A Scatter Over Grass

I’m not always as green as grass,
without direction. Like wind.
I’m not always as clear as the sky
though I do count falling stars,
scatter wishes on them. I wrap
up in trust of another sun rising.

Dad believed Revelations, rising
up like the Bible says. Through grass,
linen shrouded, in a rapture and wrap.
But I don’t feel the same wind,
see the same green. I wish on stars.
I look to my heart, not to the sky.

I see clouds where you see sky.
I see weeds everywhere, rising
up, chasing the moon and stars.
I see drought in summer-dry grass,
feel autumn when the Sahara wind
blows freakish warm. And I wrap

myself twice in traditions. Wrap
my imagation in rusty autumn sky,
blanketing against northerly wind.
My porous, chalky bones, deny rising
for Revelations claims. Below grass,
one day, I’ll be orbiting cold stars,

humming songs and scales like stars
on ladders. I’ll wear crisp white, wrap
my head around ideas fresh as grass.
I’ll brood about how blue is the sky,
and then I’ll envy the moon rising,
mourn my strength stolen by the wind.

One day I will be lost on the wind,
swept away, dust across the stars.
I’ll be riotous, righteous, uprising
against all manner of drought, to wrap
eternity into sky. Shine on me, sky –
while my eyes see coolness of grass.

I am shrouded in rapture and wrap,
eternity shines down on this sky
as I tread a carpet of grass.