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There is something divinely delicious in a cloud
Its movements which at times seem
to move toward you and away from you,
to explode upward and outward
and to sink downward and inward
all at once.

Called white only by children and lovers
an artist looks in and deciphers the tangled
shadows, pulling forth whites and blues,
greys that tend toward black
and lavender and greens that tend
toward colors as yet unnamed.

And perhaps, they never look so well
as when they pass over a bright red roof
of some barn or building with fields
and trees below,
waving like excited children at a parade.

Then without ever moving
they float by and are gone
and the sky is left empty,
what lovers and children
would call blue, but you and I know
is anything but.

mnb