We Begin to Suspect

Like lighthouses do passing ships,
at night, sky blinks to the earth below.
Sky is an eye, we begin to suspect.

In the sky works, seasons are wrought,
bought, sold and transferred.
Sky is where children first invent.

Sky is the metaphorical womb of every woman,
the ports of call of the near and distant.
Beneath it, even the death of a beetle is precious.

As subtle as thunder isn't, the aim of rivers
is to reach an ocean. And so, the rivers above us
await release as measured and timed as calm follows storm.