Storm clouds sound their gongs aloud,
call the whole world's attention to the ensemble
of tall,dark,handsome actors lined up for a
performance spectacular
Lightening gives cryptic signals at times,
of the change of scene,rain lashes with a sweet vengeance,
till the clouds relent,and go light and white.
The cloud theater had it's ritualistic culmination,
the expectation of imminent plenty soars,
rushing streams fill gushing rivers that get
swelled,roar delighted all the way to ocean

Crimson leaves were being
Shy, soon would die falling
For you.

I was so sure
You were somewhere between
Yellowish grass, gloomy clouds
Old traffic lights, Rusty road signs

The wind smelled
The scent of autumn,
Brought you from the sky
Upstairs, waving
And me, smiling

The first mist you meet
You'll meet the guardians of the river,
The second mist you meet
You'll meet the clouds from oceans far,
The third mist you meet
Be prepared to meet your maker
For the final mist may send you
Back to river, or to star.

The snow,
  Whirls,
Spins,
And turns;
Shapes in the air.
A floating, flowing, fluidity;
Such substance in something
   So diaphanous.
           A performance,
          Just as magical as
     The starlings
They had watched
At dusk
By the pier.

      Swooping
         And gliding
     The birds
  Danced in the darkening sky.
  That erratic black cloud;
  Morphing, flowing, conjuring...
        Forming new dimensions
          While the glowing sun
               Balances precariously,
                   Poised on the edge of the world
                                                              And then
                                                                            Sinks,
                                                                         Into the sea,
                                                                        Leaving pink
                                                                     Goodbye kisses
                                                                       On the clouds.
  Now,
Two figures are
Stood by the window,
Looking out and
Watching
  The crystal dust drift
   Within the flow of the wind.
      A giant ghost's display of ballet;
         Spinning, twisting, turning...
                                  Leaning on each other
                                In silence,
                                In the darkness,
                               The skies' cold ashes
                               Sparkle
                             In the night,
                       Under the rays of the artificial
                    Street light
                      Outside.

Soon the train will leave the station,
Get further and further away...
Settling in the west for longer than a day.
Swallowed by the horizon.
Physics in the way.
                                                          She will freeze her face
                                                          And wave,
                                                          Borrowing a stoic's smile,
                                                          Safely held together,
                                                           Until within the veil
                                                           Of the warm taxi home,
                                                            Her eyes
                                                            Melt.

Do not expect a linear path
Nor a strictly circular one
Though you meander one foot to the next
In cyclical, somewhat predictable rhythms.
Do not expect clouds to behave,
Mountains to hold,
Or branches to grow.
Do not expect bridges to stand the test
of time that even trees cannot.
Do not expect your golden shot today
to hold your interest next go round the wheel.
Do not expect a clear and simple reward.
Rather, take what you can,
Whenever you can,
Drink it in,
Make it a part of you
For the next go round.