Clouds

Over ripe, hung low

from heaven’s branches, 

I suppose-

or the sky for those 

who believe in science

and have lost faith in an

exalted power;

but to the clouds,

hung heavy

forming a dome blocking

any sunlight or set-

dismissive of our collective

need for it to drop &

soak into the ground;

somewhere, above it,

perfect fruit lies-

science or God

be damned, for 

the joy in the break

is my wish alone.