Cloud
This morning I watch a pillar of cloud pass
By the picture window
I am opening the eyes of the living room
To another frozen dawn
Framed above by icy daggers dripping from the eaves
Below by a monotone whitewash of snow
Yet another ritual on
Yet another Monday during
Yet another week
Weak, but
Trying to keep myself ready and clothed
In the rags of hope
The cloud becomes a promise immediately
The same Lord who led ancient Israel through and
Out of the desert
Here across 62nd street
Overtop the power lines
Billowing
The plume, rising
Reminds me of Mount St. Helens
A cloud so marvellous it must
Mean something
Which is when I notice the smokestack puffing out my mystery
Nothing but the breath of industry
Atop the row of refineries out east
Man-made and predictable
And I wonder if that matters?