Lonely as a cloud—
a proposition to be considered—
whether clouds can be lonely.
Indeed, they sometimes breeze
along in solitary splendor,
floating through blue vacancy.

Most clouds have companions.
They congregate together—
sometimes coalesce into
formidable communities,
soaked to the gills,
rain farmers.

Roil clouds roil.
Churn out rain like milk,
like buttermilk, like butter,
spill lavishly over
the omnivorous earth,
grazing land for cows who
plant themselves among
swaying daffodils butter-
yellow in spring green.

With a show of aplomb,
depleted clouds pull up anchor,
chug on out, together, then
vaporize into thin air,
disgorged,
leaving an airy ghost town,
a cleansed and brazen sky
in their majestic wake.

Vaulting as high as dark
space wide as horizons,
a puffball wanders leisurely.
Below, tranquil poets lie prone
on lemony grass,
scan skyward.