Cloud faces floating, a slow-mo swirling through earth’s sky rivers.
Those faces fade, reappear as others’ faces, then reappear as your own face looking down at you.
You reach up to touch your cloud-self, but heartworn concertos sing the sky asunder.
You are here, you are gone, then you’re here again as the ghostly hems of sky’s river clothes mend,
and you are dressed in the most beautiful blue.
RichRant 