I love that white cloud goddess.

(https://pixabay.com)

My dear, your life is not a canvas;
do not keep spilling the colors of the earth upon it.

Look up at the sky now and then
the place
where you were first formed
by Mother Cloud
as a daughter of cirrus,
layered in white,
a sign of your fleeting destiny
still slightly damp
from her romance
with your father,
who was far too young.

They were
a pair of celestial beings
who eventually parted ways
to paint their own auto-morphology
and
forget the tale of how they once lost their way
within the body of a cumulus cloud—
exchanging dreams
to give birth to you,
clear as Hathor.
My dear,
you became a stranger
in their sky,
and then
you descended
for you held just a little more substance
than the slender pluvia semina;
otherwise, you are beautiful,
and you deserve
to return to your sky,
carrying a few memories
of me a wooden stake in the coral reef,
with pores as vast as the Aitken Basin
on your moon, which remains passive
even as it watches your wounds.

My dear,
oh, my dear,
your return
will not tear us apart,
for eventually
I, too, shall release my spirit
to find you if you are waiting for me.