Unnumbered clouds billowed to trip the sun,
Interrupting gazes of dreamers pure,
Mottled sparked grays spun, swirled, and sent to run,
The lingerers, who dreamt day would endure.
A protest towards the end of sequenced dreams,
Seems senseless to but the romantic few,
Fields dry, and water fades to air through steam,
All turns, but waiting makes a restless queue.
And while it’s true no one waits well, wait forms,
Our storms reveal both hidden ways and nooks,
Stilled time teaches, even inside strong storms,
We learn by walking paths and wading brooks.
On dreamy fields the sun, it could not stay,
But even dreams, they hold an ordered way.