Clouds drift by
As on parade.
Who knows where bound
Or whence they’re made.
As on parade.
Who knows where bound
Or whence they’re made.
Capricious winds
Present their face,
Swirl, then leave
Without a trace.
Winds and clouds
On whimsy pass
As precious days
Ordained may last.
Unknown fates
Their lives compose,
Just fleeting moments
To strut and pose.
Only memories
Remain to hold
The legacy
To be told.
One generation,
At most two,
Remembers clouds
And winds that blew.
rlkilgore
Comment at: rlkilgore@chartertn.net
