Rain Clouds

Rain Clouds     (by Christine Biles)

 

When these skies are gray

and filled with tentative rain

I like to look across the bay

at the distinguished glaciers

surrounded –

but not shrouded

by the mist, the fog that drifts

in and out of view, of existence,

like a thought, a hope, a dream

too timid to linger long.

That lethargic ice melts into

the mist, melds into the gray sky,

is that sky

with the mountains penetrating

the indistinguishable, punching

through, reaching for – What?

a Heaven always hidden, in both

blue skies and by the rain?

There are other options above.

 

Lie on your back, let the sky

ground you, see those mountains

as teeth belonging to a massive

mouth in which you exist.

That gray expanse beyond

is the only other world you can

escape to, tangible, tempting.

Reach for it, grasp that shroud

of cloud, pull yourself into

the nebulous nest that’s always

been only inches from your face,

that’s always called, an echo

within reach. Lie on your back,

let the sky ground you, see

that row of jagged teeth never

meant to rip skin from bones,

and just blink.

You’ll feel your eyelashes brush

against heavy, languid vapor.

But don’t exhale too quickly –

otherwise you may blow away

the steady magic and mystery

of tentative, resolute rain,

and you’ll be returned to a life

of seeing only normal skies

above you. God forbid.

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