My Cloud

A silver plane is writing I...LOVE...YOU Upon that paper called the sky, And someone down below---I'm sure it's true--- Feels lightly winged and high. This missile in my hand writes just the same Upon this cloud called paper sheet, Solidifying my ardent flame So snow-bound you may feel love's heat. The plane flies off, its letters stay; Then, having spoke, they drift away. My letter, too, shall take up wings, Until your hand the writ cloud clings. Now separate puffs of white blush pink To feel quick love of the sun's warm ink, As though lit eyes of her down here Winked softly back her pilot's cheer. And should you see, where far you stand, A tattering ice-paper sweep the land, Whole black-ink clarity will warm you through When you spread out my cloud---I...LOVE...YOU.