Her Clouds

I smile when someone alludes to a butterfly as the spirit of a loved one come to call. I bend to pick up a feather shed by a soaring bird and add it to my collection because my sister says it is a sign. I let the ladybug that shows up on my bathroom mirror each year stroll across my palm because a friend insists it is a reincarnation.

I try to believe them. Truly, I do. But the intellect plays mightily against a blind faith, against a belief in everlasting life, against a willingness to succumb, once again, to an unconfirmed creed.

And yet, alone, as I walk in the park or as I drive a stretch of road on days when the sun has taken its rightful place at the helm, I look up at puffy white clouds meandering in an aqueous cobalt blue sky and I find in them her creations. Ever the artist, ever clever and rife with a vivid vision, she wields a wand that renders stunning imagery from particles of dust and vapor.