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.