two boys sitting at a table

a paper and pile of crayons
laid out in front of him
will he draw clouds?
probably not
he doesn’t really draw yet
he sits in his booster seat
putting the crayons back
and dumping them again
but his blond curls
are fluffy this morning
like cumulus

he could tell you about clouds
how they are made
we read a book about weather
and he remembered
and we talked about
where water goes
when the sun dries it
and where rain comes from
he knows evaporation
sometimes he remembers condensation
and babies come from volcanoes

*In response to Clouds

The In-Between

Damn, this life is beautiful.
It’s raining a little
and I didn’t bring a jacket.

The first promise in a song;
in my headphones now, still true.
You’ve never let me go.
Help in a heartbeat,
if ever I ask.

The sky looks like a picture
painted by someone who’s never seen real clouds.
But how can that be?
Because these clouds are real,
aren’t they?

Maybe this could be two poems,
but I’ll leave it as one.
Then again, my entire life is a poem
and it just goes on and on.

A beautiful beginning
and, still 70 years in the making, an ending.
An ending just as beautiful.