She told me clouds are made of lace,
That they’re spun with fine silken strands
And pulled around on thin, taught threads,
Clumped or sprayed or stretched into bands.
But I think that the clouds are painted,
That clouds are all brushed onto the sky -
All just strokes and flourishes and drips,
Arranged to delight and please the eye.
She told me rains are falling tears,
From the spinners of the lace clouds;
In grief of a spent and spoiled world,
They cry beneath their stormy shrouds.
But I think that the rain is from the place
Where the colors of skies are mixed and swirled;
A wash that covers all things, everywhere,
This paint, it colors and heals the whole world.
She said that we live in a broken world,
An Ugly people on a ruined Earth,
That all is bleak and that all is our fault,
Because we spent all that ever had worth.
But I think this world is stronger than that;
It’s far above all the problems we’ve sought;
It’s beautiful here and hearty and good;
I think this world is whole, but we are not.