God is a cloud from which rain fell.
Thirty-nine years of my life had passed before I understood that clouds were not my enemy; that they were beautiful, and that I needed them. I suppose this, for me, marked the beginning of wisdom. Life is short.
One small cloud, cast out by the herd, limps away to the west.
It is raining blood today.
I open my book and write “Black Lives Matter
Different cities visit us daily, they exist in the clouds.
A few nights later, I secretly hope that I might be a genius. Why else can no amount of sleeping pills fell my brain? But in the morning my daughter asks me what a cloud is and I cannot say.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
The story of two dreams is a coincidence, a line drawn by chance, like the shapes of lions or horses that are sometimes formed by clouds.
I want to read every book that’s written
hear every song that was sung
I want to gaze at every cloud
and hold the zing of each fruit on my tongue.
I love white clouds and blue sky.