Metaphors

"A gallon of rich country cream

 hand-whipped into stiff peaks

flung from the beater

into dollops

across a blue oilcloth."

I believe it was in third or fourth grade, we read a poem about the sky being a stretch of blue canvas, with dollops of cream whipped into stiff peaks of clouds. I remember it perfectly, even now, and I was entranced by this, such a beautiful view of the sky. We were told to write poems of our own, each with a metaphor, akin to the sky being a canvas.

I decided to write one about the sky too. It seemed to me so fragile, a delicate balance it showed between night and day, like a perfectly planned game. I wrote about a marble game. A perfectly circular ring, well worn and gritty, with pluming dusts of clouds and edged by the horizons, was the playing field. I wrote about the fiery dragon eyed marble of the sun, and the cool glassy roll of the moon, about how they knocked each other out of the ring and back again, two perfectly balanced opponents in an endless game.

I volunteered to read mine out loud. I stood, and proudly told the class of my marbled metaphor.

Nobody understood it.