Clouds
I've opened the curtain of my east window
here above the computer,
and I sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage.
A little cloud above the neighbor's trees
resembles Jimmy Durante's nose for a while,
then becomes amorphous as it slips on north.
Other clouds follow, big and little and tiny
on their march toward whereness.
Wisps of them lead or droop
because there must always be leading and drooping.
The trees seem to laugh at the clouds
while yet reaching for them with swaying branches.
Trees must think that they are real, rooted, somebody,
and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water
which sometimes blocks their sun.
But trees are clouds, too, of green leaves-
clouds that only move a little.
Trees grow and change
and dissipate like their airborne cousins.
And what am I
but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations?
Don't I put out tentative mists here and there?
Don't I occasionally appear to other people
as a ridiculous shape of thoughts
without my intending to?
Don't I drift toward the north
when I feel the breezes of love
and the warmth of compassion?
If clouds are beings, and beings are clouds,
are we not all well advised to drift,
to feel the wind tucking us in here
and plucking us out there?
Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps as we imagine?
Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I.
One in many, are we.
Let us breathe the breeze
and find therein our roots in the spirit.