Our weather is purely for our reference, a tether for the newly unattached mind, a kite on a float for cutting off by others,a well for picking a pail of thirsty waters.The sky-strata grow wider for the asking.
You ask if you want to be the shepherd in mountains to negotiate endless spaces.Your flock has endless feet for counting.You know you want to stop conversation.The weather is sun hid in a backyard tree.Its rain is deep in hiding in the beach sea. Its clouds are a nightly television thunder.
Moon has temporary circles like tired eyes.They tell you that rain is coming anytime.
The Morning is Just a Dream 
Leave a comment