When I was young
I spent hours lying on my back
Staring at the clouds
And wondering what they were.
Sometimes a rabbit or cow.
Maybe an old man or woman.
Occasionally a car or truck.
They represented an ability to dream,
An insight into a creative urge
To make sense of the world around me.
I still love to look at clouds
Even though I am officially old.
I no longer see shapes.
Instead I see beauty.
The wispy feather-like clouds
That streak across the sky.
Or the piles of cumulus clouds
That signal storms coming.
Or the thin stretches of clouds
That add depth and color to the sky.
They still represent creativity
Because they stir in me
A desire to put words to paper,
To make sense of the world
Through story and song.
I hope that I will always be able to see
Wonder in clouds.
That they will continue to speak to me
In verse and narrative
And help me to tell my version
Of what the world means.
So I will keep on watching clouds,
Like I did as a kid.
And keep on trying to make sense
Of the world.