The brook tumbles down the hill
Along its rough bubbling course
Giving birth to seeds of a cloud
Wisps that rise to the heavens
One flows down, one floats up
Of identical stuff, but strangely
Never the twain shall meet, sad
But they are imitating, yes, life
Light first turns the clouds golden
But soon night casts a dark cloak
The cloud is still there, unseen
Till tomorrow comes, if it comes
Promises of things that could be
May be like a cloud, wispy stuff
Disappearing in night’s mantle
But can one wait till tomorrow?
I had put my hands on the cloud
Touching yet not able to hold it
Elusive like a soft dream slipping
Away with break of early dawn
I touch the brook’s cool water
And know it’s real, not a cloud
Yes, not a dream but cold reality
But alas, I love a sweet dream
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