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CLOUD We speak of life as an oboe speaks, in Summer colors stirring the orchards playing the windchimes by the door. You put the telephone down and your voice hangs a little cloud of new rain over the cold and restless sea. I cannot hope to disconnect. How can a man admit he loves so well, so hopelessly these clouds that only turn maybe hover do not descend, never touch. Now birds are rising in the dial tone with a motion as still and breathless as the respirations of a dying seal. A squadron of great brown pelicans is lifted from the harbor to investigate the coming night. If they will watch the sky for me maybe I can sleep. © J. Kyle Kimberlin |
