No Clouds

The pure summer blue above
seems sometimes to stare right back,
one great concave eye over
creation; moments like this
are when I reach deeper down
with my small and callused hands
to grab hold of the thick woven rope
that binds me to the anchor inside
and pull it taut to tighten
both its grip and mine
on whatever weight I've got.
But as sweat beads on my brow
and I lean back to gain leverage
I turn and look over my shoulder to see
the three blind mice named id, ego, and
soul scurrying, scrambling for straws of experience,
using them with the delicacy of morning light
to weave my rope together.
There are tiny green strands of quiet moments
watching wildflowers bend shyly beneath the breeze,
thicker burgundy yarn of loud nights with red wine and revelry,
and all the faces of friends rolled into thread
in more colors than I could describe.
To watch them work is incredible,
these three fabled minions of mine,
squeaking like sonar, calling out coordinates
with bits of twine 'tween their teeth
in a twelve footed sightless waltz of creation.
They give me the sense of having endless allies
in this beautiful broken place I call home,
so I turn 'round and smile, lowering my anchor
hand over hand on my tight-woven rope, deeper
deeper down within me
into a warm and shapeless place
where there is no bottom.