the secret language of clouds

today the sky turned five shades of grey with bone white fingers, cutting clarity from our sight as though a scythe through the air the wind became a poem with bending branches, swaying words in a world of once spoken truths, scratching voices meant for whispers in the late afternoon of Wednesday’s dying light we starred blankly as rain smeared over windows, each drop a sentence running away with our words like five year-olds we became fascinated by our inability to see the great green world beyond, watched as darkness flanked the earths edges and sighed at blue’s attempt at speach