On this blue sky day
the clouds are painting poetry.
Is the wind the author, I wonder?

Long lines wisp straight across the horizon,
could be “projective verse”
far as the breath will go.

The short puffs are Williams or Cummings descending
down toward earth, its vast girth the open
auditorium where this all plays out above.

The palm trees behind the wall are exclamation
points breaking the lines that ever
change and fall before our eyes.

The birds dot the phrases
with deft maneuvers moving
in and out of the spreading stanzas.

And as it all moves west what remains
is the zen of the capacious screen
in all its ravaging completeness.