maybe one day the clouds will come down
we'll walk on silver, peach. or crimson
on the gauziest ground and seem so winsome
through fields of evanescence
being oh so pleasant, forgetting the thunders.
how lovely to be opaque
translucent as a lake
to float there or to seem to
substance of a dream
the sheen too
in cloud land
roaming
ghosts of ourselves only better
in a strange kind of weather
the beautiful elusive, and not quite so conclusive
with flight so close at hand
singing slightly stranded
with the rainbow banded,
mama said, what is it?
the clouds came for a visit
whispering like the rains
our cumulo refrains.
mary angela douglas 9 august 2022;11 march 2023
No comments:
Post a Comment