The clouds are browned this morning
In a lightly hoovered stream
That warps in woven frays
Refracting reds and purple
On beds of wool minds laying
Contemplative as they conjure.
They coat the void as they float.
She was harder than that
Though she floated just as still
And promised hues of softness
No cloudwool can distill.
There was always something for herself
Not spread like rainbow ice among the crystal,
The only note that she could play
In such cold blue.
The air was much too thin,
The company too bleak ...
What happens to the best of us
As we spread too thin our fleece
Across the cling-charged flock
Too nebulous for love enough
To uncurl ever their locks.
They will move much further on,
Acquire a bruised patina
As the offering of their play
That never ceases its spin
Away.
