Speaking of Clouds


“Look, Grandma!  We match!”
We are both wearing gray.
“You match the clouds, too.”
Grumpa adds = perplexity.

“No, the clouds are not gray;
they are white.” Consternation
spreads across 3-yr-old face,
examining the overcast sky.

“I can’t see them!” Panicking.
“I don’t see gray clouds!”
“Do you see white clouds?”
Hoping to restore rationality.

“No; they just look dirty. Why?”
So, not gray, will be the answer.
“They are full of rain.”  “Ohh!
Dark clouds mean a storm.”

“Or snow,” I suggest; am corrected.
“Snow clouds aren’t dark, silly!”
“They’re not?” Serious revelation.
“They are white!” Sound logic.

“Do you know, Grandma, when
the snow comes all the leaves
will fall down from the trees?”
“That’s right,” Grumpa asserts.

“When your cousin was two,
she was worried the trees were
broken and wanted to fix them.”
“Even I know that’s not true.”

“It’s not?” irresistible goading.
“No, the leaves will grow back
when the winter is over.” Precise
wisdom charms this aged mind.