A Cloud Grows

 

She withered

during the pandemic years,

locked in a cell of her own devising.

A songbird,

left to warble

in a dim and empty room.

 

She suffered

for her vices,

and suffered more

for her virtues,

for never was a gift,

like life,

more troublesome,

than when it might as well not exist.

 

Everyday

she’d gaze out of the window,

and watch the tree outside

change its leave.

Time would be like fluid,

and then stutter,

as the present, unwanted, came.

 

Eyes beheld the world

through her devices,

but her mind would never seem

to comprehend

the violence and strife,

and the division

that had taken on the world.

 

The outdoors called to her,

open sky

and spring rain.

Often she would wonder

if the world

would ever accept her kind again.

 

To lay,

in the soft, summer grass,

scented breeze off the field.

Sun,

warm and relaxing.

Butterflies and daffodils.

 

Birds sing,

and in the clear blue,

one small spot of white,

that  she watches

with all the intensity of her mind’s eye,

as it grows.

 

From a small ball,

to almost a perfect sphere,

to an amorphous shape,

bigger than a car.

White billows voluminous

in the sky.

It keeps growing,

stretching out far.

 

It shades and darkens,

only slightly,

then without warning,

it opens up,

and she imagines,

laying in a sun-shower,

light up on the field.

 

Fear and death

are ever present,

so she would enjoy

a fantasy

of cleansing rain,

songbirds,

butterflies,

and daffodils.

 

 

HG – 2021

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