I wonder at the feelings of those glorious clouds
that alter their forms,
adapting to the whims of the fickle air.

They puff up in innocent delight
when the sun bathes its brilliant glory on earth,
pushing their way forward
eager to greet the bright, crisp day, overflowing
with new breaths, new thoughts, and new laughter.

Or do they puff up in superciliousness
angered, desperate to prove their greatness?
A storm is unleashed
from the smoky, pompous figures in the sky
that stomp around like spoiled children
frustrated by a wish unmet.
Water pours down their distorted countenances
as they plead for something -
anything, to ease their sorrow.
Then when their channels are drained
and their feelings numb to nothing
they allow a gray veneer to remain
urging for consolation.

But soon, rays of uninvited light peek through
the lonely ash blankets, searching for
a playmate.
Betraying its stubborn refusal to relent, the clouds
part in sheer wonder
at the audacity of these scintillating beams,
apparently unaffected by the earlier tantrums.

A smile carefully creeps on the face of the clouds as
grayness slowly diminishes,
until only the frayed rims of the heavens
are tinted by something other than pure sky blue
and the august sun.