Where the clouds from

Where the clouds come from

and where they go, I want to be.

Layered upon the patchwork sky

across the flaming line of yellows and reds

as warnings of something hot

they flail as a wispy veil

hiding I know not what

Above the blues drag off into darkness as deep and as royal as can be

the chance to fly jumping across my mind

as I think of ways to get to you.

I ride at 30,000 feet as if my a miracle

Meeting and greeting clouds as long lasting as dreams.

But where do these clouds come from,

and where do they go?

Is there some hidden cloud weaver who threads them together across the heavens?

Or is there a cloud making machine that pumps out all the grays and white cotton?

And at night, as I rest, what of the clouds?

Once conceived, do they fly forever, or do they merge to be sundered later?

Do they come to rest or do they forever wonder the sky

As I surely forever wonder about you?

And there are so many kinds, all soft and silky

and yet at 30,000 they can be so hard.

Formless and yet with shape they buttress my taxi as I fly among them

Not knowing whither they go or where they come from.