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Drifts Of Down

The clouds are feathers
Drifts of down on solar winds
Tickling the Sun
With their frolicking gambols
At play,

Brushing your hair with the Springtime this morning
A light in the window
Like a song in your soul
Brings to mind some lost dream
Found in childhood long ago,

The trees spread their wings like angels of green
Soaring towards Heaven with roots in the stars
Embracing your breath like a hope planted unseen
By teeming seas of minions by frothing fields with scars

Dissolving weathers
Wear away the want and worn
Weary chants for more or less
We are gone before we guess

At play,
The clouds are feathers
Drifts of down on solar winds
Tickling the Sun
With their frolicking gambols

Poetry by Chaucer Whethers