If wooly white or thunderhead,
The densest cloud is vapor still.
Not sailing ship or downy bed,
No firmer than its misty chill.
But from the Earth, the poet dreams—
His lofty musings wafting high.
And in that realm, for him it seems,
The truth of clouds has gone awry.
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only a poet knows
here is a hint......just post one poem a day....or one in the morning and one hrs later, because the 2nd poem will knock the first off the readers list, and if you enjoy feedback on your poetry....thats a better way of getting it........
you are some writer!!!
i think i will track you........
have an easy day!
pax A