Fragmented Cloud on a Sunday Morning Flight

Fragmented Cloud on a Sunday Morning Flight

In the middle of blue skies

I see a cloud so old 

it wants to sail to Timbuktu,

Timbuktu and rain.

Emily keeps calling the bees.

She wants to blame them for not hiding

the joy of their last flight.

No happiness is greater

than the flight taken to the glitter

of your own flower.

Where is Eden?

Is there a hammock there?

Can we sing and never cut down trees?

Eden from the clouds

looks like fancy food, food

rushing through river of dreams

while the dead back-crawl

to the table where men sit

and forcibly bend to eat.