Gold Making a Day Terrible

I thought clouds were supposed to have silver walls

but I guess that was my delusion

because gold-breathed mist and

thunderous cherub cheeks make home

above my head, naturally.

As I look up from the sidewalk

the cloud tuck Señor Sun under their edges

in a humid quilt too heavy for winter.

No frost or hail or sudden downpour

makes the clouds any less.

They just hang there, you know,

as if they take pleasure
in taunting their underlings.

Open up and give us rain
or sprinkle or spittle, I say.
We need a little something.
I thought you were supposed to help.

They just make a big commotion
and bundle Mr. Sunshine behind bulbous forms
too dark to be sheep or lions.

The whole sky melts in gold
and violent purples between the cracks
where the cloud edges should be lighter or fluffy.
But they keep their dim distinction
even after they pull apart
briefly.

I glimpse the sun before he sinks
below the horizon, before he is put bed.
His last rays reach my face
as if saying it will be alright.

The clouds close in, smash together,
make a clamor without making rain.
I wonder what would happen if I could
go up there, over my head

and suddenly

poised between sides am I, the blade.
Let my silver lining cut where it may.