Eating Clouds

How grand to witness the death of things once again. How gracious to swim in an impermanent stream of consciousness. What does that look mean? What do your eyes say? How little must you move your lips to make the clouds part and the sun shine? How I love to be no ones. A longing to be yours, a need to be free.

Surely there’s a whole lot more I must do. But I watch the colors change in leaves, noticing an array of hues as the sun shifts. Another building goes up. I worship the bits of sky in the skyline, day after day the slither whittles further and further. Though the sky reaches heights; no building, no city shall forever cover the big blue tear that is the sky as long as I have my own two feet to bring me two steps back. I stand close and have my slither of sky. I eat the slices of pink, orange, yellow, purple clouds, even the gray ones with pockets of blue seeping through.

Glory be to the myriad of colors that seep through. May life be a disjointed rainbow, the wind circulating the covenant we have made. Praising what we have prayed. All to live and die in the story of our day. I exude it. I hone it. I wrestle with it. It is my marker in time. I lay my hands in the wet clay and whittle about the day. My hands in the clay, day in, day out. Had another hands felt God in each grain? A bird must jump and then flap its wings. They needn’t flap their wings profusely once they beckon the sky. What a beauty to soar. Such wonder is a soaring beauty.