This morning I watch a pillar of cloud pass 

By the picture window

I am opening the eyes of the living room

To another frozen dawn

Framed above by icy daggers dripping from the eaves

Below by a monotone whitewash of snow

Yet another ritual on 

Yet another Monday during 

Yet another week

Weak, but

Trying to keep myself ready and clothed 

In the rags of hope

The cloud becomes a promise immediately

The same Lord who led ancient Israel through and

Out of the desert

Here across 62nd street 

Overtop the power lines


The plume, rising

Reminds me of Mount St. Helens

A cloud so marvellous it must 

Mean something

Which is when I notice the smokestack puffing out my mystery

Nothing but the breath of industry

Atop the row of refineries out east

Man-made and predictable

And I wonder if that matters?

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