Nothing, or nearly so,
These thin molecules of air,
Water vapor collected
So high it’s crystallized,
The ice of a cirrus cloud
Lit by reflected light
And the slant of evening sun
Rendering this whole blue nothing
Something.
Then the hand, old, instinctively wise,
Darting across toned paper,
The scratch, scratch of a pastel . . .
There! Do you see it?
A hole in the sky!
Sometimes,
If we push hard
Against the skin of the world,
It will give enough
To allow us a moment, nearly nothing,
Maybe, but something,
Even if it’s just a hole in the sky
That calls us to remember,
Then shows us
Why we do what we do.
—Bob Wickless
