Clouds Cry

After a long week of blazing sunshine, the sun itself is exhausted and has called the in clouds for help. In a state of sadness they thrive, a garden is born below, their wispy cheeks afloat and finally dried. I look outside my window and awake to the earth's fresh sigh, every color alive, replenished for more of time’s try.

Sunshine hides high above where the mountains reside. They are strong and made of stone, and precious gems that glitter their insides, the anatomy (anomaly) of the earth, sea, and sky. Swirling haze spirals decorate the sky, shy of twilight where the gaze shifts from our mind to the stars that major light to guide our third eye; let it go and let it flow.

Why catching the does eye does my heart flutter, longing to prolong our goodbye, taking a lesson from their trot, so graceful as they prance along with their mother’s steady stride; head held high, parallel to the subtle beauty of the sun, moon, and sky. The moon pulls me in close as if to lull the tears that have been swimming for 20 years; eyes glossy, they spill so fast, whipping my fingers along my cheek like a fishtail, safekeeping time passed as remembrance, a force fervent alike with life and deaths sacred dance.

How it will end depends on the rain, veiling the future as they grant population after population the gift of life over and over again. Seasons are the grant to new beginnings, overt beauty within the difference between having a life and truly living.