A poem of recognition
Clouds rearrange themselves
like fingerpaint ink blots:
a ballerina chicken doing the splits,
a hot dog waving goodbye.
Her dreams are spun sugar,
changing faster than mine,
rising into towers of thunderheads
and potential energy. Her day is a light year,
and she can fit a galaxy in each one.
How many earth-planets
do they say are out there? A hundred million
possibilities to reach the…