By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 10/20/07

When all are sleeping, the Mistress of the Skies
Is awake, even in darkness, piling huge amorphous
Amphorae of vapors above the mountain, arranging
For starlit apertures, collecting cotton around
A sinking moon.  An artist without audience,
The hugeness of her effects nevertheless
Penetrate the somnambulists, molding the channels
That guide their slumbering perceptions,
So that already when they, when we, awaken,
Her work will have made the selections,
Which will color the content of our vision,
Focus our ears’ attentiveness and determine
Those nerves of felling to be stroked.  The clouds
Of bones, the clouds of blood of which we
Are miraculously composed, are shaped
By a breath that is not ours, but hers:
The giant of our giant interior climate,
Whose vast, celestial mansion is our home.

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