Sometimes I Own the Sky

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Sometimes my space is small and all it takes 
is the whisper of a thought to knock me down.
Sometimes I own the sky, my gesture wide engulfs 
the furtherest gull to fly, beyond where thoughts may lie.
This town may be our place of resting purpose.
Where would I begin to think I am,  if not for love.
And I continue to suppose and I propose again to test 
the bending wheat of leisure. For I am not an oak 
but made of manly measure, and my grain 
is but a river of my dreams.

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