Cumulus Cloud
You say, teach me, oh cloud, how to widen my grief so large
Cumulus Cloud
The average cumulus cloud weighs one million
pounds. I watch the hung weight of it
effortlessly mozy in the open air, its soft
whispers gliding from country to country,
above the mountains, over the seas.
Maybe you are someone who believes in
miracles. You say,
God can float anything.
Maybe you are someone who has no room for
belief. You say,
the water droplets of the cloud are so small,
and so far apart that they don’t hold dense weight.
And anyhow, clouds don’t actually float, but are
lifted by the heat rising off the ground, slowly and
diagonally descending till they
dissipate.
Maybe that’s the miracle.
Maybe you believe in nothing.
Maybe you don’t know what to believe,
stripped of awe. You say,
I don’t have time for clouds.
I’m late for work.
Maybe there is no cloud. Maybe you’re
a poet. Maybe one million pounds is nothing
compared to what one wet mouth can hold.
Maybe there is only the way water gathers,
then comes apart. You say,
teach me, oh cloud, how to widen my grief
so large it might then wisp and float by the heat of
a rising love determined to hold me.
Show me, wise lake in the sky,
how to carry myself
slowly
from day
to day. 


"Maybe one million pounds is nothing / compared to what one wet mouth can hold."
I received chills and a felt sense of perspective. Thank you for this miracle, dear friend. All love,
I will read this to my Earth’s Breath yoga class today, thank you Moudi!