Clouds moving in different directions, the upper layer in wisps from the southwest; fluffs of cotton beneath them, drifting from north to south — and if I were a cloud, the breeze here at ground level would carry me ever so gently from west to east. Somehow — and this is another miracle — there is just enough blue sky to hold this all together. The clouds move, but they remain. I remain, while I think about moving. What’s stationary, isn’t. What’s in motion, has a strange kind of permanence — is haunted, if you will. Of course this is just my view, and that view itself is a cloud, subject to all of the same things clouds are. It’s as easy to let go of as it is to hold.
June 4, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Clouds, Consciousness, Diaries, Journals, Miracles