You can make a cloud out of anything.
Water & ice are obvious, at least here,
while sand, dust, dirt & fines are more common
in other places. All you have to do
is make it small pieces, and move them fast —
wind, water, or heat. True too when speaking,
you know. Talk fast to toss out the big words,
watch them float in a fine fog, and then fall.
These are the perfect clouds. If clouds had saints,
virga would cast halos, not just mare’s tails.
Haphephobic and fleeting, sleeting down
a virginal blend of ice and thin air,
feathering down the nepheliad’s hair
in soft whispers no one can hear or catch.
Hard huge words hurtling at one another
collide, of course, and splatter into mists,
thin sizzling sounds and hollow gasps, noises
that collide yet again and coalesce,
aggregating into a misery
of tears and touch, bruises blooming with hail.