You would not believe the amount of color in the sky.

Every pigment an artist might want streaked across the clouds in wonton abandon.

Every texture imaginable speckled over the ceiling of the world.

God must be an artist for what I see is the mural in a cathedral.

Devoid of sorrow and pain with beauty as its middle name.

***

I long for a skylight.

A window to that beauty at all times.

Lit in the glow of the day like a warm bath.

The stars my wandering night lights.

A source of ever changing comfort.

Present at all times.

***

I am left staring at a blank ceiling.

A skylight something that I might never own.

Unable to carve my own.

Instead, I am creating a different kind of skylight.

A source of equal beauty.

Lighting my own sun.