Clouds 6-3-06

It’s a mostly blue and clear day
As I’m driving home on the freeway
Large and majestic cumulus soar
Like white islands with shimmering shores.

Off to my left is a very low, deep-gray mass
With dark grasping fingers
Which quite slowly I begin to pass
Yet my gaze insistently lingers.

Its nearness to the ground is curious
As if it risks proximity to a world
Which the white dares not
Cares not to associate with.

Or perhaps it had trouble during takeoff.
Or got weak knees.
And found it couldn’t or wouldn’t compete
With the holy white.

Suddenly there’s one drop
That becomes many plops
Upon my speeding windshield
And all else in my vision field.

Elated, I lean forward
Forearms behind my steering wheel
And peer up at a second gray mass
Invading an otherwise sea of bright.

Then a drop falls through
The crack of my window
And wets the blue of my jeans.
I lower it slightly more.

And peer up praising
The lack of pride in the gray.
And worship it
For its humanity.

© Ben Rubinstein