Condensation of Thoughts

"Clouds are the dream weavers of the sky, spinning fantasies in sunlight," said my love before wayward journey into night, arm in arm, over fiery autumn cobblestone.

"Oh," murmur the passersby, sweeping... peering up.

"Look! there, there are angels, combing their spiderweb hair with a broom, and now the strands are caught, oh! into a spindle, and it shall become... the wool of a whole herd of sheep! across the indigo. See how they run towards the sun! to avoid a laundering...?"

The man at the doorway licks his finger, and checks the wind, "To the south, my fair friends!! To the south," he nods approvingly.

"Aha! the clouds are busy, tonight, darling, making hay before the winter, then."

"No, my love, it's you who weaves, and spins, who turns poofs of breath into infinite flaxen stores upon the wind," says I, enamored with the light, and the chill, that shows to us the splendor of your weave.

02.04.205

Rabindranath Tagore challenge @dctezcan