The clouds are pulling at the corners. <br />My perfect blue sky, <br />(pinned in place with <br />barbed comments, <br />hot tears, <br />half-burnt bridges <br />and a fine-tuned defense) <br />clouding over like a crowded dance floor. <br />Bloated, jittery hormones <br />and fog machines <br />are working over my blue tones. <br /> <br />I want instead to harvest the clouds, <br />peel them and pour the bright frothy juice <br />into your proud, pink throat. <br />These clouds, planted and pruned <br />by your nervous hands, <br />hang like honeysuckle, <br />under which other flowers are doomed. <br />So I choose to speak now, <br />over-dramatic and aberrant, <br />because, after all, <br />can't words keep away a few clouds?<br /><br />Delilah Miller<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harvest-the-clouds/
