BY ARIANA APOSTOL
Staff Writer
I am made of water vapor,
Gazing down at the world
From the top of the troposphere,
Unconcerned with my own existence,
Just doing my job.
There is no time for crises in the atmosphere,
And I am never asked to hide how I feel.
I absorb the nutrients of the earth,
Releasing them in pitter-patters on your rooftop
When I’m in a bad mood.
I have days of dark grey,
and days of marshmallow white.
I am a work of art.
People create shapes out of my malleable figure.
I float quietly across blue skies, indifferent to life on earth’s surface.
I hear whispers of the people below me:
Laughing, crying, praying, screaming.
New people arrive, old people disappear.
It seems like a complicated place;
Life is much simpler in the sky.
Clouds: a poem
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