The Fresh Imprint of Cloud Shadow

Every cloud shadow, a breath of sail,
slides silently across the wheat fields,
a passing veil, a story that conceals
its fleeting embrace, the hand that vainly
reaches out to grasp it. It is a kiss of dark
that dances for an instant, without delay.

But beneath that mantle, the earth breathes
a subtle cold, a pause from the sun.
It is a drop in tone, a mute shell
that welcomes silence, the intimate violets
of a fresh moment. The stone absorbs
the sky’s dream which briefly takes it.

Then the sun returns, the stain dissolves,
disappears into the blue, leaving no sign.
But the grass, the rock, the moss that evolves,
preserve intact, with silent ingenuity,
the imprint of that fleeting caress,
a fresh memory, a sweet uncertainty.