My Cloud

A silver plane is writing I…LOVE…YOU
Upon that paper called the sky,
And someone down below, who once was blue,
Feels lifted up so high.

This missile in my hand writes just the same
Upon this cloud called paper sheet,
Solidifying my ardent flame
So snow-bound you may feel love’s heat.

The plane flies off, its letters stay;
Then, having spoke, they drift away.
My letter, too, shall rise in wings,
When in your hand the writ cloud sings.

Now separate puffs of white blush pink
To feel quick love of the sun’s warm ink,
As though lit eyes of her down here
Winked softly back her pilot’s cheer.

Oh, should you see, where far you stand,
A tattered ice-paper sweep the land,
Whole black-ink clarity will warm you through
When you spread out my cloud—I…..LOVE…..YOU.

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