The clouds are pulling at the corners.
My perfect blue sky,
(pinned in place with
barbed comments,
hot tears,
half-burnt bridges
and a fine-tuned defense)
clouding over like a crowded dance floor.
Bloated, jittery hormones
and fog machines
are working over my blue tones.
I want instead to harvest the clouds,
peel them and pour the bright frothy juice
into your proud, pink throat.
These clouds, planted and pruned
by your nervous hands,
hang like honeysuckle,
under which other flowers are doomed.
So I choose to speak now,
over-dramatic and aberrant,
because, after all,
can't words keep away a few clouds?
Delilah Miller
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harvest-the-clouds/
