the crone

opening the door to ideas

Clouds going home to bed on the horizon

I used to think that the clouds went to bed at night

When I saw them softly wandering towards the horizon at sunset

I imagined they gathered together

In a heap

On the horizon


Bedded down 

Until morning came

When it was time to stretch

and pull away

For another day wandering the open sky

Fat white sheep

Roaming over the hills

Or ragged drifters

Hanging above towns

Ganging up together

On mountains

Or sailing out to sea

Doing whatever clouds do

Before sunset

When they would begin the slow drift back

to where the earth meets the sky

To pile in huge heaps

Banked up

and bedded down

On the edge of the world.

Does it hurt the sky when the plane scrapes by?

I used to think

When a plane was flying overhead 

The sound was the sharp metal scraping the smooth blue sky

It scratched.

Leaving sharp white scars on skin.

Did it hurt the sky when a plane scraped by?

Could the sky heal?

I’d watch the white trails

As they changed from hard thin painful lines

to softer plumes

Dispersing and disappearing

Until the sky was a perfect smooth blue again.


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