The insistence of clouds and their vapors.
They will ebb and flow, one to the other
so as to never be lonely or dissipated,
great bodies a convergence of
moisture in ragtag whites and greys.
Then comes the hammer of far weather,
so they are scuttered and donned by winds
that lift and mold them into a face,
an ibis or tails of horses with
a brush stroke of air, a charge of lightning.
All we cannot see in their depths is secret
but their largess of water is borrowed from
the sea its own master; its pioneering tributaries;
the lakes which shift, thrive and are patient;
the brooks a dance and dalliance
in ruts and hollows of dirt.
They lift up the vapors, those beneficent caretakers
of royalty, life blood of the earth, each droplet
altered by movement and alchemy, some thunderous
clouds emergent with power…
…or those surrendered in sprinkle and mist,
soft upon the skins of this world.
A mystery of life in a sky of teardrops for all.
A benediction of water captured in time.
A rush and wash against shore and branch
like ancient harp and drum.
Here is the yielding of rain which
amorphous shapes retrieve to shape again.
The river today is endowed with cloud water.
I kneel at its edge and drink in
a visage of holiness, light to embolden
its sheen and sway, an offering of blueness
to restore my faded eyes with grace.
This signal, a psalm for life.
A restoration around and within.