Like Landscapes.

There is a line of dark clouds
converging on the newly sprung shoots of
the tree outside -
lime green against dark cloud grey
and the white of angry cumulus
who write my days in a
fine ink of ice and vapor.

They speak of time
in ways I almost know,
In voices I can almost hear.
I wait for someone to remove this shroud
so that they may roll through me
like landscapes of foreign worlds.