Why do clouds follow my mind,
burgeoning white to my thoughts in form,
somehow eluding to my passing ideas,
sincerely tagging me in its game,
as flow they do from one thought to another,
in molded forms I can see, so sharply,
so starkly in my awe of reality.
I lay still to watch their antics,
and what I think so distinct appears,
in sheep and pigs and faces dear,
memories of past at least depictions,
of galleons in flotilla, fishes and trees,
and chimpanzees all above me like a film,
a fractured flicker of mind enshrouded.
For hours I just lay,
to witness this rather odd display,
and what comes to mind is the chicken and the egg,
that eternal question, my apprehension,
that my own thoughts precede,
and then those clouds proceed to form my will,
or is it my imagination still, out of sync with life.
A preponderance I cannot bear,
for what do clouds and I share,
to be in such a conducive bind,
that time itself somehow maligns my thoughts,
or do those clouds have more in thought than I,
I wish I understood, this conundrum,
this play on my mind reduction of a truth.
I do love that sky, that rich blue cosmic eye
that peers down on my diminutive soul,
maybe thinking how very small I am,
yet I just see how vast the eternal flame,
the life that never ends,
and clouds like scribbled notes upon the page,
do turn my head to view, and wonder.
No matter who begins to share,
those clouds and I swear an oath of complicity,
and I in breath do breathe their living force,
and they of me, in thoughts take stock,
of another human blessed and not at all bereft
of pleasured life, so freely given,
from clouds and in heaven’s wake, on earth for us to sate.
Tony DeLorger © 2018