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Word Count: 275
IVE OPENED THE CURTAIN of my east window here above the computer and I sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage A little cloud above the neighbors trees resembles Jimmy Durantes nose for a while then becomes amorphous as it slips on north Other clouds follow big and little and tiny on their march toward whereness Wisps of them lead or droop because there must always be leading and drooping The trees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them with swaying branches Trees must think that they are real rooted somebody and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which sometimes blocks their sun But trees are clouds too of green leaves--clouds that only move a little Trees grow and change and dissipate like their airborne cousins And what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations Dont I put out tentative mists here and there Dont I occasionally appear to other people as a ridiculous shape of thoughts without my intending to Dont I drift toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of compassion If clouds are beings and beings are clouds are we not all well advised to drift to feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking us out there Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps as we imagine Drift let me Sing to the sky will I One in many are we Let us breathe the breeze and find therein our roots in the spirit I close the curtain now feeling broader fresher The act is over Applause is sweeping through the trees
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