Clouds

Clouds

How long does a cloud live:

a short, wet fleeting life

concentrated on the burden

of letting go. Joy is saying

no more holding on, no more

water, no more dust,

no more hail, no more.

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Does a cloud suffer from

rootlessness? The cirrus is

an airy nomad moving

like lost feathers from a pillow.

Does it get sick of being

unbearably light? A refugee

of night and day. A member

of the never-ending diaspora.

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Do clouds get lonely

floating alone

in an expanse of blue sky?

Do the cotton-ball cumulus

brothers and sisters get tired

of sharing space?

Do they yearn to touch

the earth like a lover:

gently, softly, often?

Does the fog wish for weight;

to embody, to be present

and permanent?

Do clouds know they are loved

no matter how menacing

they look?

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Do they see more than us

and hold onto it like a tragedy

or a comedy?

Do clouds try to tell us

secrets? Do we know how

to read their wisdom

before it’s too late?

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Do clouds spend more

of their lives looking

up or looking down?

Is it hard being in between;

the gatekeepers of the earth

and beyond?

Does this make them

want to fall into the ocean

and never get back up?