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.