Did the sky now have a look of weary resignation,
or was it just a figment of my fertile imagination?
But tell me, did I also imagine the time
when it had smiled down at us with a soft indulgence,
crinkling its clear, blue eyes in merriment,
perhaps bewitched by the girlish giggles that rose up to it,
in staccato bursts of mirth ?
When the fiery sunlight filtered through a green canopy,
unable to curb its curiosity, an aquamarine sky,
peeped through the gaps in the foliage,
a picture of blue vitality, while we tried to disturb
the frisky squirrels diligently carrying out their spring chores ,
and girlish giggles rose up to it ,
in staccato bursts of mirth .
Then the time when our tiny feet blithely walked upon
a patchwork of gold and brown, it beamed its golden smile,
so happy, so vibrant; why does the aquamarine sky
look, so bruised now, a ghost of its former self?
Ah, I know, its pallid eyes hunt for those girls whose
giggles have now fallen silent, alas , and no longer rise up to it
in staccato bursts of mirth.