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.
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 neverending diaspora.
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?
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?
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?
lifeismanythings 