To The Clouds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Admitting to the clouds that they will not rain,
But you can trust me to drive myself home- as you turn away
Over a golf course that your father maintains during the
Day- after he has passed across all of the fronteras and made
Wonderful forts in the countries of our blues:
And you have a son, and you have a daughter and they live near
The Christmases that even the giants cannot pass;
And they wander through sly avenues and have children of their
Own of sticks and hay: In the storms gathered by the mountains
Like wet clay, the horses stumbling in the peat bogs,
And the willow wisps flickering heatless promises:
The castles that were once so grand, are now all awash, and drool like
Landslides that the dragonflies patter into like woebegone
Pilgrims who once were well on their way; and your uncle belongs
In Mexico hanging in the trees that shaded your childhood-
The places in which you belong, my Alma- my soul, which have
Forgotten you, while I grow more imperfect trying to sing:
The swing sets diminish as the sunsets, and your children will soon
Be bussed into a high school to be taught things that you never
Will- and that I sincerely wish I could never understand.