What the Sky Tells Us by Marguerite Guzman Bouvard

Today the sky has drawn
its curtains, the wind is holding
its breath. The mountain does not
wish to see the splendors

of its meadows disappear or hear
the trilling of birds drowned out
by the drone of chainsaws, the thud
of falling trees. It does not want

to witness a land bereft
of its constellations of larch, pines,
birches, plane and linden
covered with asphalt, rows

of chalets and apartment houses.
The sky withdraws its cerulean
blue, its drifting clouds, the light
it sheds where meaning lies,

on that which cannot
be owned and the paths made
by our footsteps. The real village
lies in our hearts that are the rooms

of our loved ones, where our
souls open their windows
to see a star, the beauty of flowers,
the grass flaming in early spring.