He says his favorite clouds
all wear size seven shoes.
He knows she believes
she once saw a paisley rainbow
and will never forget it.
She wears size seven shoes
and her tears can be torrential,
yet they can still nurture
the first flowers of spring.
He imagines her a butterfly
sitting on the back of his hand,
gossamer wings poised
at the thin edge of stillness.
He will not tell her this, afraid
she would think him a fool
or worse, flit wings and fly
in search of a rainbow,
just not a paisley one.
They both know that one
hides always within the clouds
that halo the mountain
whose streams feed her tears.
Those are the clouds
he knows, that always, always
run barefoot across the sky.