Here is a poem in which I say that I am my own cloud. I may drift and yet I am found, by presents, by ads, by you.
My own cloud It’s like walking on clouds* says an ad daring me to click. Who doesn’t wish to walk on clouds? Oh, but they know me. They know this is just what I need. The foot pain is the biggest problem I have. I wear fluffiest socks to minimise it. They are like miniature clouds. Cloud shoes would be the next step. And the next? A bubble. Like the one we just had. Mine continues. I am my own cloud. I make my own weather. *shoe commercial slogan
I didn’t click on that ad – merely closely monitoring how they are trying to get to me – but I got a package on Friday. Parents sent me coffee, the best kiwis I’ve ever had from their Piran garden, sweets, chicken salami. Just before I went to throw away the box, something white winked from under the edge: a recent photo of mom.
When I got the previous package, the quarantine was on and it made me feel as if I were in the army. Now I imagine it’s war.
This day in my blogging history
2017: 6 x Ray Bradbury and windows: Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.