Ontology of Clouds
A thrown stone finds its resting
place within the grass
the egg, more than a tombstone,
must shatter first into light
what is born must devour itself
in order to survive its darkness,
its promise and threat.
Dandelion lanterns along the path,
soon blown out, are not a loss, no
seed is a loss. In the green light
of my first summers, seeing the wild
mass of morning glories swarming
secretly over overlooked places,
I knew I had inherited a lie.
When the spirit is wounded
and the wound is deep
be gentle—in this ache,
this flare of dying light, again
and again we risk everything.
Salt stained clouds foam up the sky
it is on an afternoon like this
we will begin again with nothing.