Thick, dripping clouds
smeared across a, nearly,
robin(egg)-blue sky.
If I were religious
I would picture God, the chef,
(draped in a “kiss the cook” apron)
taking a whisk covered
in freshly whipped cream,
flicking his wrist, with artistic finesse,
painting the sky (except the sun)
for my aesthetic pleasure.
Unfortunately I will have
to come to terms with
the fact that those puffs are
merely condensed water,
and God isn’t.