Born with the clouds

Not yet
A droplet in your mother’s azure eye
Watching the undulates roll by
Amidst sparkling castellanus
Foretelling

So small
A lone cumulus, the ‘normal’ one
In the middle on its own
Too high for stratus, too low for cirrus
Too low for contrails.

Tongue twister
Say it: cumulus humilis!
You can’t.
Not really fast.
And a lot.

Growing
Shooting up towards the stratus
If the not stars, at least the cirrus!
Like congestus, with a destiny
Of density.

Dissipation
Depression, breaking you down, fracturing
Nothing is right, and you can’t find the rhymes
You can’t find the clouds
Contrails reach out.

Cumulonimbus
Hard to say, easy to judge
Big like fudge, sky-terror but gentle nature
Leader of clouds, enemy of planes
Protector

Looking back,
Below, once a drop in the ocean
Now in motion to something great
Until you… precipitate
Ready for the next evaporation

Shadowy white from faraway planes stream
You can only look on and wait for the sea to dream
Again
Of a cloud.

© Shakira Dyer