How high I climb,
looking down, through patches in the clouds, at the valley below.
No wind,
the air too fragile
to risk moving.

At the behest of puffy whiteness,
imagery shifts endlessly,
refuses to settle on a shape,
a color, much less a conclusion.

Did a scarp
just lift me on its shoulders?
Did the sun hold and gold me gently
as a lock of mother's hair?

The hymn-speak of the mind
leaves the body without an explanation.
The planet's found a way to dream.
Greetings from inside its head.

-- John Grey