Clouds are inhabited by the wind Who speaks a language that we hear, but do not understand.
It can be a powerful howling sound Like the cries of a mighty warrior lunging forward.
At other times, it is a whispering muffled sound. A soft voice among branches of trees
Although faint, it's power to move and sway is still observed.

Our eyes follow the clouds during the day. Is it because our lives mimic them?
Destination unknown?

Clouds remain vigilant and stand guard above us.
Unless they disappear and yield the stage to a solid blue
Where is it that they go when they do?
The Bahamas? Maybe China?
Imagination beckons.

We turn away when the bright sun creeps out from behind them.
Not wanting to be hurt, as in a bad relationship

No two are the same
Yet we try to find patterns among them.
Look It's shaped like a heart. A butterfly. Things of beauty are often hard to explain.


© David Michael Smith