White washed over with blue,
And painted by a storms hue,
Understood by a few:
The sky’s a canvas, it’s true.
Blotched over with polka-dots,
And tinged over with grey, stormy spots:
The heaven’s are a mess of cloudy knots.
The sky’s a canvas, full of lots.
Layers of vapor
White as paper,
And pretty as a slipper:
The sky’s a canvas, it couldn’t be simpler.