This Afternoon I Spent Five Minutes as the Poet at the Window

I watched the people from my second story window
As they walked, biked, and drove down the streets below
I noticed the exhausted trees –
Leafless and bent after a long, snowy winter
Their limbs spread out and their fingers hunched,
Casting evil spells on each other
They looked so fatigued – so grateful for the sunshine

My eyes wandered to the sky
Timid and pale
As though, it too, is recovering
From the harshness of winter

I thought about the clouds –
Today in their thin, choppy patterns
And I realized
It’s a peculiar thing to watch the clouds move
It makes me wonder where they’re going
And if they’ll ever find their way back
I wonder how far they’ve traveled
And how far they have yet to go
Do they have a life span too?
Can clouds be created or destroyed?
Will these clouds one day swell up
And become rain clouds in Europe?
Snow clouds in Antartica?
Will they see all there is to see
And rain on every possible parade?
Or will they soon die,
Because they live for winter
And winter only?