Fogmagedden

I once daydreamed

 I could touch the clouds

From an airplane seat

They are angelic, billows of angel speak

Puffy white, silky, plumes,

With the mystical foolery of dry ice.

This month, they’ve lowered themselves

Upon our shoulders, as if unafraid

Of our touch.

They too are heavy with tears

Perhaps they needed to lower themselves,

To be fully understood