Why can’t we eat clouds?
The tall white ones would be
vanilla like Turkish taffy.  Grey 
scudding clouds black as Necco 
wafers. Snow clouds pure as rock candy
whose splinters of crystal
melt on the tongue.
Green tornado clouds taste darkly 
of Key West and Matcha tea.
Dawn’s pink clouds are gossamer light
as cotton candy at the church fair.
Sunset cloud's tang colorful
and sweet as Life Savers.

How fine to dine on clouds and color.


My aunt gave me the sea
in a book big as me.   
Curled in a chair, I
wandered tidal pools
despite the Christmas chill
held hermit crabs
and starfish
inhaled salt air.
I walked that book’s pages
with childlike devotion
an eight-year-old explorer
baby beach comber.
Robert Frost’s snow drifted
into my 4th grade class and
I listen for his horse’s bells
as I practiced writing
and first used an ink pen.
Line by cursive line
his poetry became mine
along with the smell of ink,
the feel of good paper,
the love of pens.
I began my own poems
in solitude, sweet solitude…