Cloud Watcher

 

The sorghum plants are broken stalks,

dried, brown the color of sack lunches, 

and trampled in the yard like pick-up sticks. 

The wooden fence stained with pool water

-green now, overtaken, algae-conquered:

What was crystal is now made mysterious…

The plans we had, the vision laid out

like clouds are now misted over, rolled plum off the porch,

or rearranged themselves, perpetually shifting 

(storms a'brewin', coffee cold, kitchen a mess).

But the Cloud Watcher lies still, inured to empty threats.

And wind tosses pool-dried hair, quilt stained and rumpled, 

air-dried. The chimes clang a broken melody,

thunder rolls in the distance, a subtle warning

-or a roll call for cowards. 

She closes her eyes and hums, content.

Knowing that somewhere, light will break through again.

...

Sometimes I need to be reminded that the world will warm up again. I wrote the above poem, initially entitled, "Summer's End" in late August of last year. Of course, there was actually quite a bit more summer weather to come for Austin, Texas. But school was about to start, and we were luxuriating in those last days of freedom, of bliss, watching the natural beauty of summer age before our eyes, stretching out those last hours even further by moving eyes upward to sky, to cloud, to abyss. 

Identifying as a Cloud Watcher is a way of choosing to embrace the moment, refusing to fear the future, refusing to be bogged down by the incessant demands of life's so-called Important Busyness. The clouds, the clouds! I will look to the clouds! 

Sincerely,

Natasha