Words are like clouds that float out of reach,
hovering vapors, looking solid to touch,
they come in as thoughts that drift into speech,
like sprinkles or showers, too little or much.
Some words like cirrus are high wisps of cloud
if the pressure agrees and conditions are nice,
but many will make their way down and out loud,
in a punishing rainfall or a volley of ice.
Breaking and broken, our words fall apart
like showers of sleet being dashed to the ground,
issuing forth from a sin-broken heart
they can cut to the heart, a wound to compound.
Cumulus swirling in tempestuous squalls,
gathering in blackening ominous veil,
ready to thunder their voice down the halls
in echoing rumbles, words pummel like hail.
Lilting and gossamer, words float on air,
uplifting the lonely, the proud to reveal,
falling like snowflakes or winging in prayer,
with the power to calm, create and to heal.
Words can be honey and sweetness and light,
silver linings that steal the dark of the gloom,
open windows in Spring, a bird singing at night,
rainbows through shadows of the billows that loom.
by Nancy Doud