By Netz
Date: 30 September 2000
Clouds
Clouds
Framed by my window, I can't help but stare,
Are two young girls, one white, one black,
Throwing handfuls of dirt in the air.
They are making their own clouds as
They watch the dust being blown by the wind
And defined by the last of the suns rays.
What joy in their creations, what mirth,
Never mind their eyes, ears and noses
Are filled with clinging clouds of dirt.
Unprompted, a smile replaces a frown
As I watch their glee and their
White tops turn brown.
Oblivious, nothing exists outside their realm.
At this moment, at this time of their
Direction and creations, they are at the helm.
Two miniature friends playing as one;
Just rejoicing in the simple pleasure and wonderment
Of the mixing of dirt, wind, and sun.
Such pure ecstasy, it warms one to see.
At what point did our wonderment and curiosity
Stop filling our lives with such utter glee.
In our boxes, in our suits, and our white shirts,
We have let slip away the simple and unhampered -
Just the joy of throwing dirt.
I want to create my cirrus and nimbus with only the ground.
Just I and a friend smothered in clouds of brown
As we arm in arm, inside the clouds, twirl each other round..
.
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