The Shape of Clouds
I’m sitting here, a place that
could be anywhere, and
moments linger, then slip by,
since time requires a past
to form the gift of now.
The future’s a reforming realm
towards which our nows must
daily race, for the sum of
moments must not supplant our
destinies, else all is surely lost.
And swirling in the currents of air,
and swirling in the currents of time—
perhaps awake, perhaps asleep—
I found myself lost within and
felt the prickly damp of clouds.
Where glimpsed were all my
hopes and dreams that lay in
hovering expectation, awaiting
only effort of my mind and hands
to mold them into useful form.
Coming to my senses I
recalled what I had seen
and knew for certain then
that dreams are real
and hopes are not in vain.
Often now I walk outside where I’m
content to fill my pensive hours, gazing
skyward toward aspirations yet unrealized,
and daily they’re arrayed for me,
outlined in the shape of clouds.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2018
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