Transparency Spells

A poem about spaces.

By Lukas via Pexels

The taste of the clouds
comes as a parting sigh

A breath
the press of vanilla between pages
Catching and furling

Tumbling off the tongue
with the sort of grey
Of a noonday promise
left to blanch in the sun

Of snow made from
cotton instead of powder

Or other little whimsies
belonging to the unseeing eye

Only to come and
only to go