Marsh in Summer

You might say that clouds have no nationality
Being flags of no country, flaunting their innocent neutrality 
Across frontiers, ignorant of boundaries;
But these clouds are clearly foreign, such an exotic clutter 
Against the blue cloth of the sky
I want to rummage among them, I want to turn them over 
With eager fingers, I want to bargain
For this one and that one, I want to haggle and dicker 
Over the prices, and see my clouds wrapped up In sheets of old newspapers, and give them away 
To young girls to pin in their hair 
Or tuck them, glossy as gardenias, behind an ear, 
Or stretch one out to the length of a lacy shawl 
And toss it over a shoulder, or around a waist.


Clouds, by Constance Urdang


Note: this is the same mountain seen in the far distance of yesterday's photo.