Soapbox

I wonder if they look as beautiful from above
as they do from my front porch,
these clouds that billow and sail through the evening sky
like miles-high clipper ships or
cosmic tributes to Marie-Antoinettes wigs.
Born in some more tropical clime
they venture north, gorgeing themselves all day in a sea of humidity
until they arrive, rotund, towering and stately
each trying to outdo the other in their lush, pearled curves
and coquettish, indigo depths.
And when the Van Gogh of evening
paints them in a thousand impossible, manic hues,
like strumpets they stroll the sunset skies
flashing vermillion skirts
making me wish I could rise
and fly among them.