Wannabe clouds are prisoners on earth.
Then the jailhouse blasts open.
Merciful heat helps them soar
to meet and marry atmosphere.

They have history.
Perhaps once
they fed trees in forest dirt,
drizzled lazily
on tense city sidewalks
stabbed by sexy stilettos.
Or lingered in rain gutters,
passing the time,
in a choking yearn for skyward release.

You, like future clouds,
cannot choose your appointed time.
The wait can be long,
or callously short.

Then one day a sun’s ray,
at a most uncommon moment,
selects only you.
Jolts you with joyful heat,
as you rise to join an atmosphere
much easier to bear.

When your genes pull the trigger,
and call you home,
you go in terror,
so acutely alone.

No dear love, no parent, friend,
can die for you.
This moment you fear
in your deepest gut,
is not what you believe it to be.

Go on!
Give a long
exhale…
of ecstatic relief.

Fall into fresh arms.
Let death become your lover,
and gentle escort to a new world.