Poetry of Robert Fisher
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With my child’s eyes I shaped the clouds
Into what I might do in life.
In the dawn light when our twin Venus is
A mysterious pearl
About to kiss the horizon,
The cirrus clouds are shredded
Into tendrils like nerves branching
To organs and muscles.
My small hands heal rifts
And add missing pieces,
And the cloud is healthy again,
Gets up and leaves my office
To fly over the pagodas of Burma.

The cumulus clouds are brains
With visions and voices,
Or one minute wild with lightning,
The next black like a bruise,
And swollen with sadness.
I hold their hand while they cry,
Then focus sunbeams to fill them
With inner light.
They stay with us all summer,
Looking like pillows for angels.

Sometimes the clouds take my shape
And the plain below is my stage,
Where I bring a smile to every face,
Farmer, fisherman, housewife,
Smoothing out fathers’ frowns
And making teachers hug dumb pupils
And mothers love sons
Who think this is the caveman days.

Clouds unlike us reshape themselves
While we on the ground are rigid trees
Growing in soil rich, acid or sandy,
Bent by prevailing winds,
Clinging to mountain cliffs,

Basking along rivers,
Turned into blazing sparks,
Or home to birds and insects,
Or shading scribbling poets.

May 5th, 2016