Ode to Apollo

Too often the sky goes white all the way

To the edges, as if all the blue we had drained

Into the river and washed away. Too often

It seems like the world is void of blue or even

The grey that people call the sky when it rains.

And it’s not just color that leaks from the sky:

Light also loses its luster, as do the faces

Of the buildings, the people, the flowers.

There’s nothing the buildings can do about it.

They sit there facing the four directions

Equally. The people face downward, even

While walking, their noses inches away

From their phone screens; only a sickly light

Emanates without illuminating, and they

Never notice the sky, even when the sun

Reappears, finally, Apollo’s horses riding out

Of the cloud-cover to reassert the god’s sheer

Radiance. Only the flowers pay such close

Attention to the sky that they look up, basking

In the sudden warmth, and follow his blazing,

Glorious trail across the sky, transfixed and

Unable to look away, unwilling to think

Too soon about the inevitable fall of indigo

Dusk, purple evening and charcoal night.

But even then, the warmth stays with them

Nesting among their petals until chill midnight

Finds them facing East once more and hopeful.