The clouds do not weep.
Their sagging brows are not gray with remorse,
or cool with melancholy,
or heavy with hope harnessed too long.
Perhaps that’s why they float –
free from the seeming solid world below.
From worry or from woe.
Drawn by the dawn’s steamy sight –
the celestial smile above the dimmed cradle
from where we crawl.
From where the ground lays.
From where our bones lay.
And roses bloom.
But the clouds do not weep.
They do not tear for our flowers,
from once-soul bearing bones –
now flower food
of spring’s recommence.
A natural force,
in part driven by the seeming gloom above
where we now stand.
They do not weep for us
anymore or less than we weep for ourselves.