Cloud Shapes (#35)

September, spaciously

Spidered, appled,

Gleaming, as though

We could see the air—

Eyes lifted, recalling

Third grade clouds, the ones

We drew fluffy and puffy and never

Quite white, crayons melting

Through blue construction paper.

After school, laying on the

Lawn with my aunt, eighty four,

The one who knew a one-legged

Civil War drummer boy, September

Clouds taking any shape they

Pleased, she pointed:

“That one’s a tea kettle,” and

“There’s a bowler hat.”
Bless my aunt. She never said
“Look, a clock, spinning
Backwards. Wait, forwards!”

Or, “There! Pages

Torn from a calendar, tossed

Against the autumn sky!”

Those daily dull aches

Everywhere, always, anyway,
Enough of these shapes—
She saw, instead, bicycles,
Elephants, and birthday cakes.