Cloud (I.P.)

I’ll meet you at the bend
in the river...the old
blue river, and it will hold
a puffy, white cloud
in the crook of its arm.

A blanket of moss
will line its banks
where an upturned boat
with rusted rails
and blinded eyes –
busted with stones
and shale, still
sparkles yellow.

In the distance there’ll be
a house with votives
in its windows...a red barn
at the edge of a sea
of rippling barley,

and the purple valley
that cradles the river,
will be filled to the brim
with speedwell,
as petals fall like blue
bruises on verdant sward.

The sun, an orange ball
once sat on your shoulder
the whole way home,
will set more silent yet
behind a puffy, white cloud
like an iridescent star, and
there, you are.