The puffs of cloud-fluff scurry across the blue
Trying to catch up with the cumulus ahead.
That mass of white, moving so slightly, is due
To gather all; till, nimbus, it will shed
Its load of precious water, earthward spread
The gentle coolness of its mist, and strew
Its quenching drops on thirsty dust. Now dead,
The withered plants will blossom green and new.
And so of gathered water vapour bled,
The very substance of itself poured through,
Sacrificed
Keeps the tryst
To give itself completely and be true
To what it means to be a cloud …
