Clouds Dream Too

A poem for the beautiful, ever-changing, and imperfect

Photo by James Wainscoat on UnSplash

So still I forget they are alive

That I am alive

How can they be so perfect

When they don’t make any sense

Window seat in the airplane, the best view for patchy white ribbons shielding melting mountains and harsh yellowed hills

Unchanging, condescending

Tanning and freckling a little too much, peering from under my hand shading my face and Ray-Ban shades, the best view to see their glowing edges dotting baby blue skies

Relatable, all-natural

Sometimes cotton ball coils coming off from my sherpa blanket stretching across the horizon, leaking gold, orange, and pink

Sometimes slate gray puddles splashed across a growing blackened canvas, spilling defiance and an expecting air into the mood

Never the same and always infinite

The casual beauty of the world

Stopping us in our tracks

Two children pick furiously at the dandelions in a fresh green field, lie on their backs, and look up

The girl asks, which one is that? A dragon. A mustached man. Why not both