The Point of Clouds

The point of clouds? To be pointed at, as few rain or snow, or they dim the day’s brilliance to little end, and the best at best are mercurial. Yet doubt not the meaning of a cumulus above us, to separate humans, and even some antelope, owls, or krill, into two schools at the university of beauty, one that graduates students in a discipline — let’s say the fine art of creating paint or the carving of an instrument to be played — and the other, much smaller, though time- honored school, that of thought and getting lost in it. This latter’s a curriculum taught by the taut cotton weather we stare at now, on our backs, in this park. Oh let’s learn the shape of a galleon or a sweet orange sliced in two, by pointing together, and now the plump fruit spilling as it ripens in time, the flesh of which I share with you.