all growing with sea

I am stuck on a cloud going Eastward, sailing across the Prairies,
then, we dip to the Appalachians – all misty and suffocated with
cold breaths.  After that, we are above the Great Apple of NYC,
stuck where souls ought to be, stuck where souls are rushed faster
than the wind that carries me over them,
whispering necessities behind right ears make people run faster,
towards something.

The cloud changes shape; my journey does too.  A sparse few
persevere with me in my sweeping motion Northward – the rest
disintegrate, circle down to the Caribbean – the middle earth,
to where the sun makes the sea glad to be so translucent,
and your skin wears colour like cancer is a magical concept.

Some clouds go across the Atlantic, the salt and seascape of it,
the waves rolling onto the beach like they do every other place on earth,
hit England, get depressed, come back.  Some make it to
the sea of the Past, the olives and the grapes and Minotaurs
all growing on earth, all growing with sea;
some settle for trade routes to Jerusalem or Mecca
or Cairo.

I want to be above this.  Watching the winds muss the clouds,
make something of them – not just hurricanes, but crops,
and orphans happy with their new soil,
and trees that create shadow,
and birds that shed their wings.
I want to see this take shape,

now.
Right above me, under me, beside me-
I want to be stuck on this cloud going Eastward.

-Arina

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