A cloud is a letter the sky once wrote,

Folded in white, too light to float.

It wanders slowly, torn and free,

A drifting thought no mind can see.

It borrows water from the sea,

And paints the air with mystery.

In silent crowds it learns to roam,

Nowhere owned, yet everywhere home.

When heavy with unshed rain,

It darkens hills, fields, and plains.

Then lets it go with gentle sound,

Soft applause upon the ground.

O passing cloud, unchained, unbound,

You never ask to settle down.

You pass, you change, you fade somehow—

A lesson in the present now. ☁️