She tells me: your head’s in the clouds
I wish it were true
But I’m affixed to the earth.
I imagine I’m a fat pasha gliding
On my own cumulus
Rising incrementally higher into the cirrus.
I never want to land.
Not until the loose soil
That covers your face is swept away
And once more your lips move
To say my name.
OctPoWriMo Begins! 31 Poems in 31 Days… Will I be able to keep it up? Tune in. Join the challenge. Poetry is good for the soul…