Head in the Clouds The cloud, so distant from me here, on earth, on this wood of our deck, on two feet, looking up. I reel it in, and imagine droplets misting my face… tears or shower; relief, renewal; it's all there, in a white fluffy ball changing semblance in winds that come from all directions. Able to morph; adapt. Can I be the cloud? May I take it as my cotton-filled pillow, tuck it under my head, let muscles relax, and dream-visions come? Resting on the cloud, I send thoughts up and away. It is near, and far; supportive, and sieve-like. I will bring cloud down, wrap it round, wear it as a shawl, or skirt. I will twirl, letting it take what shapes it may. I’ll see how the cloud is holding me today. I know there are days I laugh aloud; in some, feel enveloped by trepidation. Let me remember, while still free from shroud, to lift my gaze and not ignore. In that space and time, of each given day, whichever season, let me adore, adore, adore.
Marjorie Moorhead writes from a river valley at the border of NH/VT. She is grateful to have found poetry as a language and community in which to ponder different facets of existence, such as survival, relationship, responsibility, faith. Much of her work can be accessed at https://marjoriewritespoetry.wordpress.com/places-you-can-see-my-work/
Amethyst Review 