Clouds

Constantly inconstant, merely water in air,
obedient to wind, they drift or stall or race;
obedient to temperature, from hour to hour
their passing presences disperse to empty space.

We try familiar comparisons; we say
they’re formed of cotton wool, or curdled cream, or lace.
We liken them to animals or continents.
We spy in them a sailing ship, a giant’s face.

We seekers of resemblances are like the clouds.
The force that drives the living planet drives us on.
We move, we change; we briefly catch the watcher’s eye.
Unique we are, and insubstantial, and soon gone.