As a Wandering Cloud

Like a great artist,

The sun rises every morning to paint

Dark sky with red-gold fire,

While I stand in awe, watching

As the world unfolds.

-

Newly born with light,

My outstretched fingers reach to

Touch wandering clouds,

Freshly spun cotton hung where

I know the moon to dwell.

And in that moment, my soul

Grows wings, flying up to kiss the sky in a

Tender meeting of invisible lips,

The taste of peaches lingering

Even as sunlight gilds the trees.

-

So I stand

As a wandering cloud, drinking in

Sweet solitude.