As on parade.
Who knows where bound
Or whence they’re made.
At frenzied pace,
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