Cloud Trees

Cloud trees release their fruit to the wind

  a hundred feet above

  in fields of eternal blue.

Clouds are birthed in this grove.

My tears alone water these giants;

  until,

  that is,

  my sorrow runs dry.

But

  do sorrows ever run dry

  this side of  blue sky,

  this underside of clouds,

  where rain falls

  and orange mist rusts red bicycles?

I’d like to move to the sun fruit forest,

  but pay is better here;

  more job security,

  and I am alone

  to create cloud sounds for blue skies,

  and those who live downwind.

I need my trees;

  I’m afraid to leave,

  and the valley needs rain.

For Poetry Potluck