The Cloud

A midweek cloud poem for you.

The Cloud

There were many others above
pale grey dirigibles beneath slate-grey stratus.
One though, had dropped down, catching
the sun’s last, molten exhalations.
Brass then copper wool unraveled 
out of and into itself,
a slowly rolling tumbleweed 
of mist and fire
somersaulting beneath the others
which hung like carp in a pool.

Surely something so centerless, who’s excellence
is in coming apart, who arrives by dissolving
has no object or intention. It does not reach
like a branch, or a thought, and in the entire arc
of its existence never fully coheres. 

Yet still, I address it in the personal
as whom, and make strange promises.
We will turn one day, I say.
We will love this place again.