I own two passions now: watching clouds and
writing words. Hours fly, courting clouds, writing
poems in my mind, for what are clouds and words
but poets' fuel to warm their souls upon?
Cirrus, stratus, cumulus or mare’s tail;
in such clouds, words seem hazy, nebulous
and misty to my mind; there are no lines
to read myself between, I can only
go within and listen to their whispers.
Words are scudding sounds of speech when spoken,
but silent when written, except to my
heart where they can speak in volumes, or if
days are sadly overcast, they hide from
me and say nothing, nothing at all.