Jim Price and I have never met, but we are friends, brought together by temperament and indefinables. I know him as a gifted writer, for one thing. Yesterday he sent me an email saying, “In response to your blog entry today, here’s a poem I wrote years ago about clouds. A spell of clouds is a group, like a flock of birds. It may be the only word I’ve coined, but I like the sound of it.”
A spell of clouds, guardians of the sky,
have gathered in sacred council.
How shall they execute the Earth’s will?
A child-god is experimenting with creation,
scribbling poetry on a canvas of blue.
The gates of movement are preparing for change.
Behold the potential of clouds and mind.
Rain could just fall naked
from an ever blue sky,
but the spirit of rain would have no home,
and we would lose our contemplated projections.
Rainwater and mind meet
in these chaotic cloud forms,
a near daily litany that most people ignore.
If clouds were more rare,
like aurora borealis,
we would line up with our cameras,
sit on lawn chairs in anticipation of their arrival.
If even more rare,
like a total eclipse of the sun,
we would travel great distances,
rent expensive hotel rooms,
wear “Cloud Sighting” T-shirts,
wrap our lives, for a moment,
into the mystery.
Because clouds are that beautiful,
not just for poets and children.
They are the planet’s gift,
recycled water in marriage with sky,
the spirit of an emotional world.