Recently we had a storm come through in the night, high winds and a few snow flakes. By morning only the clouds remained to tell the story. Low clouds scudded by at a pace. Above them, larger clouds floated along sedately, benevolently. Both were headed north. It looked like a tortoise and hare story.
The next time I looked up, I saw this:
Is that a ribcage
there in the sky?
And a hint of a backbone
catches my eye
Where did they come from?
Did a cloud creature die?
Before I can ask
they go scudding on by.
- Karen Eastlund
Looking up and cloud watching has been a good escape lately. And then...
I ran across a wonderful poem by Kate diCamillo, writing about a snowy scene in NYC:
If I was in charge of making
snow globes, this is what I would put inside:
the old man in the black overcoat,
the black dog,
two friends with their faces turned up to the sky
as if they were receiving a blessing...
read the rest here.
Clouds themselves can feel like blessings. I wondered where they were going, and how they found their shape, and I began to think of them as a metaphor for writing. We don't always know where ideas come from, or how they will take shape, but we scud our words across the page, follow the prevailing winds, and somehow we get there.
It's Friday again, and that means an online convention of poets! This Poetry Friday is hosted by Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference. She's offering thoughts and a poem about puzzles...and yes... I've managed to solve a Wordle or three, and they are fun! Anyway, the rest of the group will post links there, so feel free to visit her and join in.
Thanks for reading today. Please leave a comment and remember to look up and see what blessings might come your way.