On Monday,
the sun smiles
through the glass on floor 18,
arcing on Tuesday
toward a lapis horizon
faster than I can
get things done.

On Wednesday, the sky
is a toneless
giving way
to Thursday's thunderclouds,
above a world washed silver.

Friday finds the sun
back again-not frolicking,
but flickering
with the promise
that tomorrow's sky
will be bluer,
and neither it nor I
will be trapped behind
a window.