The man was picking figs, clumsy
younger nephew of inept farmer.
He grabbed a handful of sky,
ripped it carelessly off.
He was alone in the grove
so he tried to hide it by stretching
cloud, which he also ripped.
He buried them both in the dirt,
shallow grave, and moved on.
The piece of sky was a seed.
The sky grew like vines, like kudzu,
feet every day, covering the ground.
The deer stepped tentatively onto it.
Was it like walking on ice, like water?
A fox tried to jump through,
catch a bird in flight
Now that we are sky-dwellers,
now that we (even the oaf
of a nephew of inept farmer)
are gods living in clouds,
what can I say to you?
About the Author
Danielle Hanson strives to create and facilitate wonder. She is author of Fraying Edge of Sky, winner of the Codhill Press Poetry Prize, and Ambushing Water, Finalist for the Georgia Author of the Year Award. Her poetry was the basis for a puppet show at the Center for Puppetry Arts. She is Marketing Director for Sundress Publications, and serves on their Editorial Board. She curated a poet/artist collaboration show Alloy at Arts Beacon in Atlanta, where she was Poet-in-Residence. Previously, she has also been Writer-in-Residence for Georgia Writers, Poetry Editor for Hayden’s Ferry Review, and Poetry Editor for Doubleback Books. Her work has appeared in over 100 journals. She teaches poetry at the University of California, Irvine. More at daniellejhanson.com.