Being Sky
Millions could have had the same name
if their begetters, too, had discarded the front
instead of the back of their old country handle.
Ski to Sky is not a very long road to trudge
even if our unwieldy first syllables, Zbarov,
weren’t theirs, nudging assimilating eyes towards the end.
Those millions also Sky, would they be as fixated on above,
as entranced by its transmuting appearance, as am I?
During the passing hours, would they too
monitor its current hue, its present decoration, and sigh
resigned, but not bereft,
should endless monochrome reign supreme?
