You breathe the heavy mist of the day,

and yes, you must live, 

though at times the weight of the clouds 

presses your eyes hard into your skull;

You trudge over the crumbling roads,

and yes, you must move,

though your boots are scuffed and

the wind punches your breath right out;

You blink in dry dust,

and yes, you must see,

though the clay of the earth 

has caked over your clean vision;

Because

just then,

the sky breathes pink, trudging, misty dust,

and your clay has eyes to see this.

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