As a hazy March sun sets

My two eyes,
skywards rise,
in that artless search
to hear unvoiced answers
why this hazy light
when the evening should golden blaze
why this wispy soft, finely spread
gossamer skein of cloud
with the rains still months away
then, the sun I see
for what it is, a third eye mortal as me
and this sky too,
is of me, my brow smudged
with thoughts and dust,
creased with the crowfeet
of all these footloose days.