The list of things I should be doing
is long enough to wrap around me.
Three times around me.
But the play of the clouds
won't let me focus
on all those waiting things,
waiting for that check mark that means
freedom is one scribble closer.
But they can wait.
They won't change.
But this hazy blanket of grey
is never the same.
I watch it crawl across the sky,
slowly overtaking the brilliant white cumulus
that floats high, shining in the pale blue.
Spring defying the winter gloom.
Beyond the grey,
the clouds look warm and soft,
gentle under the sun,
mimicking the way I feel.
And as the snow starts to drift past my window
while the sun still shines through,
I think of how nice it would be
to watch this struggle across the blue
from the warmth of your arms,
to feel the sun on my face
and listen
as you tell me
precisely why the clouds form the way they do.
And then I'd tell you the truth of why
they curl up on the edges that way.
See that swirl, there?
That's a smirk.
They would look down and see us here,
a mix of white and brown,
blue and grey.
And they'd be jealous.
Because not even drifting
across that hopeful blue sky
could feel this perfect.
