Some will say you hide the sun;
I say that the sun hides you.
Clean as cream or stained with mud,
mixed with every hue o’ blue,
you find comfy every season,
mixing with both sun & rain;
bubble me from earthly treason:
pillow me in dreams away.
Then the billows all turn gray,
lullabies turn into shakes—
1 last thunder ‘fore my wake.