I see the pattern… I am writing a lot of poetry about nature and the weather at the moment. I am not sure why.

Let me think on that.

This life
I can hear the low hanging clouds
call to me.
I have known their ethereal touch on my wings
as I flew on mountain air
and meals of mice.

The low hanging clouds suspended
in the time
when I was wild
and life was mine.

Their whispers permeate
my glass cage
Painting for me
the damp forests
of my other youth.

My eyes are duller
in this form than
they have ever been,
My body is unable to
leave the earth.
Trapped here, for now,
All I can hear is
The call of the low hanging
clouds, speaking
my spirit name to the wind.
And I cannot reply.

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