I am none the wiser to how high the wisp of white cloud is
why I can’t touch it, why I can’t scrape it, why I can’t enter it with all my heart and soul
how far away it is from the blue sky
where it goes after I touch it wearily.
And I cannot conceive of the feeling.
I cannot conceive the sensation.
Of its softness, of its lightness
Whether I could twist it round my hand and grab it out the sky,
make it mine
Or whether I am predisposed to an eternity of staring up at blue,
at grey, at white, at cloud, at sky,
at hope, at bliss, at fear, at worry
And whether, instead of me looking up at the sky, at the cloud,
it’s the sky and the cloud looking down at me,
mocking, wandering, pointing
Or whether I am so small and minute and minuscule and tiny in the scheme of things,
I am merely a dot, a speck.
With my incessant quest for hope to look up and
watch the sky
and watch the cloud and breathe and feel and, in all my being,
feel like I am at one with the sky, whether this is, at best, just a waste, a fledgling dream that never was.