By Fall's invitation the clouds come to meet him.
Their ears aren't what they used to be,
so they'll gather close
with all the wisdom
that grey eyes,
grey beards,
and grey sighs convey.
They don't care much about speeding citations,
rip-off dealers in the park,
"I'm not sure I understand the question,"
her smile as she closed the door.
But they'll watch with respect.
Private audience
to a show
too chaotic
to follow most times.
And they don't mind a bit-part's stagefright
or bother too much if he mumbles his lines.
They'll rustle applause all the same, and often
shower the stage with fire bouquets.
Spring's clouds prefer a balcony seat.
They splatter the players with spittle.
Incessant twittering laughter at
moments all wrong, according to script.
Open-air theater takes getting used to.
There is no exit stage left.
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