When I was little, each New Year brought new calendars to the house.
Usually provided by our neighborhood grocer,
the pictures were attached to a pasteboard backing with
a little calendar below the grocer's name and address.
The pictures were brightly colored stock photos,
and often had embossed surfaces to accent the trees, flowers,
or whatever. If you had told me that skies could be so blue,
trees so green, or fruit so red I would have said,
"Maybe, but only in Vermont" -- or wherever the photo
had been taken. Nothing where I lived was ever
as pretty as the scenes on the calendars.
Sometimes, however, I look up to see the sky
on a clear day is as blue, the leaves so green, and the
fruit so red as any other place I ever imagined.
This time, a jet contrail marked the path of a plane
as it wove a path among others similar to it,
all to places where, it is hoped, the sky is as beautiful
for them as it sometimes is for me.