My own cloud

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

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  2017: 6 x Ray Bradbury and windows: Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.

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  2019: The first poppy of the year and a fine tune