The Clouds Are in a Hurry

They race across the morning sky,

With silver feet that never tire.

No map to hold,

no road to trace,

Only the whisper of the wind's desire.

They never stop to wave goodbye,

Or linger where the blue once stayed.

They gather dreams,

they borrow light,

Then leave behind a softer shade.

Perhaps they hurry not to flee,

But to answer another waiting gaze,

A farmer praying for the rain,

A child searching for cloud,

shaped days.

The sky belongs to no one soul;

It welcomes every passing face.

The clouds are in a hurry,

So they can be cloudy in another place.

Like us,

they're travelers for a while,

Carrying stories we cannot replace.

Always leaving,

always arriving,

Making room for tomorrow's grace.