In a time of dearth bring forth number, weight, & measure.--William Blake

Describing the wind that drives it, cloud

rides between earth and space. Cloud

shields earth from sun-scorch. Cloud

bursts to cure earth’s thirst.      Cloud

--airy, wet, photogenic--

is a bridge or go-between;

it does as it is done by.

It condenses. It evaporates.

It draws seas up, rains down.

I do love the drift of clouds.

Cloud-love is irresistible,

untypical, uninfinite.

 

Deep above the linear city this morning

the cloud’s soft bulk is almost unmoving.

The winds it rides are thin;

it makes them visible.

As sun hits it or if sun

quits us it’s blown away

or rains itself or snows itself away.

It is indefinite:



This dawns on me: no cloud is measurable.

Make mine cloud.

Make mind cloud.



The clarity of cloud is in its edgelessness,

its each instant of edge involving

in formal invention, always

at liberty, at it, incessantly altering.



A lucky watcher will catch it

as it makes big moves:

up the line of sight it lifts

until it conjugates or

           dissipates,

its unidentical being    intact

though it admits flyers.

It lets in wings. It lets them go.

It lets them.

It embraces mountains & spires built

to be steadfast; as it goes on

it lets go of them.

                 It is not willing.

                  It is not unwilling.



Late at night when my outdoors is

indoors, I picture clouds again:

                   Come to mind, cloud.

                   Come to cloud, mind.