Cirrus (from Nuages)

God’s little rivers. Star’s hair.
Breathing brushstrokes.

Pilgrim’s weave.
Ribs of white boats, or eye-trails, or

wind-twirls, wind children.
Thoughts of an old blue man.

White all through, with nothing to keep.
We cannot be

but water lets us be,
play and weave.

Then the yellow makes us weep.
Lavender eyes. Tears of pink.

Sad marigold
at the edge,
go back to sleep

Sing we.
Purple fingers,

gold heart.
Pink starts.