Clouds of Glazed Orange Marmalade

Elongated hands and fingers
extend into clouds
of glazed orange marmalade;
upper draft winds metamorphose cumuli
into long necked alpacas gliding
towards mountains near dark,
until their silhouettes vaporize;
no sound comes forth, only the scent of the night.

Clouds, shadows of mountains,
inhale cold curves and edges of heat
rising from ridges and valleys
oscillate into high cirrus clouds;
pure white tufts of mare’s tails,
curly ringlets stolen from young girls
licking ice crystals, playing hopscotch
spurred on by the wind.

In a small village, called Dug Dug
locals pray for rain
carrying a blue statue of Guadalupe
towards the mists of Mount Ñuñurco
their sturdy, squat bodies
weary of straining and failing crops
sing a lilting song joined by rockets
a shrill cry invoking far away clouds.

That night a cumulonimbus, a thunder cloud,
cracks the sky wide open.
I duck down, breathe carefully, count until ten
stretch my limbs toe to toe
and listen to the hard rain crash on my roof.

Clouds, such a common name,
they remind me of freshly laundered
white sheets, oblivious, that they too
were soiled and creamy
before scrubbed and washed.

 

 

One thought on “Clouds of Glazed Orange Marmalade

  1. Your imagery is marvelous. I wonder how you would describe the howling winds we had a couple of days ago, the strongest gusts I’ve ever experienced, a mega street sweeper. Where does wind come from?

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