Cotton of Sky

The fabric of the sky.

Here comes tomorrow, all billowy white;

here comes the morning, dismissing the night.
As I ride south on this fine thoroughfare,
my eyes behold fluffy forms in the air,
and they are woven with water and heat,
to a wind-dressed cloud nine thin dryer sheet:
Cotton of sky, cotton of sky,
spun on the blue near the sun's watchful eye.
Cotton of sky, cotton of sky,
found on the paths which the eagles rely.

Whether in Egypt, or over Peru,
whether on camel, or in a canoe,
they daub the sand and the cool mountaintop,
and patch the day when the tweed buttons pop.
When wool storms in with effrontery flirt,
they measure the sky, then knit it a shirt.
Cotton of sky, cotton of sky,
born on the loom of a humid July.
Cotton of sky, cotton of sky,
they're short of the earth, and brief as a sigh.

Look at the nimbus--they don't wear a suit.
Where are the cirrus? Like lint on a boot.
When all that sky-cloth auditions in kind,
there's one that weaves all the others behind.
It feels darn good on the back of the land,
it's simply a cloud of good on demand.
Cotton of sky, cotton of sky,
sheets of rain can only give it a try.
Cotton of sky, cotton of sky,
hope for tomorrow, forever they fly.