From above, clouds spore and

reproduce as layers of a wedding cake

trailing lacey ghost-skirts

across naked skies.

Something so intimate 

about their silence.

Hanging around mountains like 

God’s own bar flies

always the observers, the drifters

these clouds 

eavesdropping on the furtive whisperings of birds.

 

From below, clouds bloom and

patiently wait to be filled with rain. 

I once lay quite still

for an hour,

watched their shape shifting miracles. 

How they draw our eyes

to the spectacular,

something more than this ant-trail of 

tiny achievements

and almost moments I’m leaving of my life.

                                         

Today, they’re covering the disappointment

of a pale and watery sun.