There are mornings when the sky becomes an old friend.
One that has always been there, just waiting.
These sightings came from such a morning.
But what rose from them was not just sky, but a conversation.
Not with me, but between cloud and sky.
A few minutes taken, a few minutes paused, walking from one kitchen to the other.
I. ARRIVAL
Cloud:
I am here.
And I do not know why.
Sky:
I do not ask why you come.
I only make room when you do.
Cloud:
But being here I feel small
Sky:
Only because you have forgotten
you are made of me.
Cloud:
Will I remain?
Sky:
Everything that moves must change.
And movement always remembers itself.
Cloud:
Is that enough?
Sky:
It has always been.
II. HAIKU
Today’s forecast: play.
One cloud tried somersaulting.
Fell into a poem.
III. STIRRING
Cloud:
I rose without knowing why.
Sky:
That is how rising works
Cloud:
But I do not know where I am going
Sky:
Nobody does. Movement is its own address.
Cloud:
Will I disappear?
Sky:
Only into something larger.
Cloud:
And if I return?
Sky:
I will remember your shape,
even if you don’t.
IV. RETURN
Cloud:
I feel myself dissolving.
Sky:
Only into the place you came from.
Cloud:
Is this the end of me?
Sky:
There are no endings here.
Only changes of state.
Cloud:
Will anyone know I was here?
Sky:
The mountains remember everything.
Cloud:
And what should I become now?
Sky:
Whatever moves through you.
But it is not for you to hold.
Cloud:
Then let it move…
Sky:
And that is all rainfall is.
Just a small weather shift, in the inner life, enough to uplift my gait from one kitchen to the other.
