Clouds, using only distance, and light,
Created for my turning eye, both terror and delight.
I first noticed a black cloud, shaped like a skull;
I had to crane my neck to see it high above, almost comical.
The horizon was a theater for distant clouds
Which looked like a parade of beasts holding hands,
Or were they elephants, perhaps, tail to tail? The strong wind
Hardly moved the dome of great cloud, but the smaller ones
Were quick to sail into new, insane, realms of vapor.
There were so many hues to cloud and sky
I’m sure my painter friend would have let out a cry.
The hills and homes around the harbor were an afterthought,
As was the hidden sun, known only by the temperature of the air,
And the sunny blue along one part of the horizon. The clouds
Presented and framed what they also, as players, were.
These cloudy clouds—painting the scene, I must distinguish
Between “clouds” (those things) and “cloud” (darker, larger)—
Bloom and bulge and frown—in language—as a solemn, silent blur—
But the clarity of a cloud’s intent, vague miles away,
Is so serenely beautiful, that even you would want to stay.
Gray, majestic, yellow, blue,
I don’t have to wonder what the clouds look like to you.
Everything on earth is the history of temperature, and the fall
Of elements, grieving elements here—O darling!—after all.