Three times, clouds

Prose about a day where the clouds almost lifted me from the ground, but not quite. A day missed, a day to look forward to.

Three times my breath was taken.

Three times the butterflies in my stomach stirred.

Three times I caught a glimpse of reality.

And my heart took flight.

 

There’s a whole lot of big things in the world. Most of them are so big you’ll never really see them properly. Like a field of wheat. Sure you can see down some of the rows, but once you’ve gone about 3 rows in you can’t really get a good look at the first row anymore. You just have to remember what it looks like and imagine the size based on that memory. It’s hard. And the sea. All of the seas. They’re really big. So big, the earth itself thwarts any effort to see the other side, subtly bending the edge of the horizon just out of sight.

 

But clouds, well, they are big and they are right there, hanging over us like whole other worlds, sometimes sharing their moisture, sheathing it across the land, dropping it down in harsh discrimination. Changing the light through the entire spectrum and skewing great shadows across the land.

 

Have you ever looked up at a cloud so big that it seemed to envelop your entire reality? Three times today that happened. Once, blue, once grey and once orange. How often does this need to happen before it seems normal. I’m forty one, nearly forty two and I can’t begin to imagine how many clouds have captured my moments and breathed fresh inspiration into my world. If it’s not normalized by now, I don’t think that’ll ever happen. I really hope it never does.

 

I don’t know if there’s anything significant about clouds, but they are life to me. It’s as if they are my own heart floating across the world without the boundaries of my body and bones, stretching my soul up and out after it like the string of a kite. It’d be nice to allow my feet to lift of the ground and follow them once in a while. I’d float above the treetops, over the hills and highways, over the rivers and even out over the oceans, suspended by my cloud-heart and my elastic soul string. I wouldn’t spend too much time over the oceans, though. I’m a bit frightened of them. I’d ask my heart-cloud to steer it’s way back to the shore where I’d gently alight on the sand, dig in my toes, feel the glassy grains against my skin and be grateful for the Earth.

 

Three times my feet could have left the ground today. Could I have? Should I have stopped what I was doing and tried? Should I have had more abandon? Could I have, even for a moment, felt the weight on my heels and the balls of my feet succumb to the lift of my soul?

 

Three times I chose to let the moment pass. All three moments are in history now. Never to be repeated. My feet are planted firmly on the Earth. All 75kg of my weight contributing to the mass yielding the world has given to Gravity.

 

But there will be more clouds. They will come again. They will soar over the treetops, over the hills and highways, over the rivers and out to the seas, and back again. Again, my heart will take flight.

Maybe, just maybe, then I will follow.

Author's Note

I'd love suggestions on how to streamline this a little, make it simple, make it an easy read, you know, reduce the rough edges a bit. Any help would be greatly appreciated.

Reviews

[Cherrie]

I think we can take this at face value. A trip down traveling thoughts that are are carried on the wind in the many shapes of the clouds.
I will run with a thought sometimes and write it out to see where it takes me.
Later you may wish to borrow a piece from this for another work.
Don't be afraid to share your work or engage in conversations with others.

[Steve Nossiter]

Thank you, Cherrie.
I appreciate your encouragement.

[kentuck14]

Steve,
I like what you've written . . . perhaps you should let this be a personal essay instead of a poem.
The lines in the beginning could be placed in the prose as sentences as an introduction to your thoughts. Poems are to be concise, but to put this in poetic form would lose your wonderful prose. What I do when I've written something in prose form and want to make it a poem . . . I copy it on a new page . . . place what I've written into lines that seem to fit the form . . . then remove what is (seemingly) extraneous, or reduce the long prose into shorter jots . . . perhaps removing whole sections of your prose . . . adding new things. This takes time and a willingness to weedle down your words a bit . . . but it can be fun and rewarding. Another thought: Perhaps make it a prose poem . . . but again it would need cutting down.
All the best to your efforts,
Tom

[Steve Nossiter]

Thank you, Tom.
That’s great advice. I’ll have a play later. Feel free to have a look at the short story I just posted as well. Sounds like you, as someone who knows what they’re talking about, could give some much needed direction there too.?.

[kentuck14]

Steve,
I'll do that when I find some time to be attentive.
Tom