Unknowns

I try deciphering the sky's patterns:
what blue means against grey, how much

white gathers over rust-colored hills 
at which time of day, before night

plunges everything into uniform 
darkness. Homebound during power 

outages as storms lashed at windows, 
to pass the hours sometimes we'd spin

cerveza bottles on the table when we 
played cards, told fortunes, or asked 

questions answerable by yes or no.  
Who its amber neck pointed to 

as it came to rest was the lucky or 
unlucky one. But the future is never 

a transparent sheet— more like a plain 
brown manila envelope with a seal 

that someone shoves under the door 
with a warning not to open it until 

it's time. But when is the right time, 
and what will you find should you open

the flap and bring its contents nearer 
the blue flame to read what it says?