Speak, Cirrus. Your ice-crystal plumes, paper-white on ink-blue sky, trace glyphs I can’t decipher. Their lacy trails can only hint at whispered dreams of wedding veils. The cumulus parade with buoyant joy their swelling hearts. With such pleasing substance and airy volubility, they yet can’t express your love in words that I can see. Nimbus, you must bear the green-eyed Jezebel within your anvil head and darkened heart. That heat portends a storm of tears and thunder impossible to return to sender. And who can read grey stratus as it dims the sun, as it all day and all sky long thickens from a windy scud? A sigh at best, or doubt, or change of heart made manifest. Love letters, no more mine to burn, to cherish or to read aloud; I’ve committed them to vague posterity, to mere electrons in some cloud. Mia Burrus Sept 2015