Processional

Often, but not always,

I watch the clouds outside

My window.

Sometimes, but not always,

I don’t notice them.

 

Murky at dawn, the sky

Does not clear so much

As resolve into dollops

Of cloud, processing across

The royal dome of the

Earth’s ceiling.

 

Another day, a spill of gold

Beneath the palest silk,

A nebula, disintegrates below

The endless blue.

 

One morning, grey tufts

Drift along, bumping on the buttercream.

 

Keels heavy with rain rush over.

A ragged edge of continent

Slides past.

 

Broad skim of spider web or

Trailing corner cobweb

Dangles, fragile.

 

Daubs of flamingo pink

Heat the Eastern sky.

 

A quilt of bossy chevrons roughly stitched,

A riverbed of cobbles flows unstopped

Through hairy moss,

A shred of pebbled skin,

So much is made of water, light, and air.

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