To the Lonely Pink Cloud that Floats Above my Head

Where are you from, little Cloud? And where will your path fade? Will you sit a while with me as I enjoy my morning tea? Or are you in a dreadful hurry to get to wherever Clouds need to be?

And why is it that your hue is that of a peach?

Did you swallow a ruby? Lie too long on a sandy beach? The sun is a funny thing, warming our bones and leaving us blushed— a forbidden love, embracing, foreboding.

Oh! Tell me, little Cherry blossom, from where you get your shape— or rather lack thereof. Is it possible for a thing to be so free yet so obviously bound to one place? If you know you are free, why do you not leave? Do you prefer to float here, impossibly elevated, just out of my reach?

Oh, won't you lie with me, little wispy thing? Enjoy the sunny morning, the dewy grass. We'll nap in the green and dream of floating away together to some place never discovered.