The Book of Weston

clouds hold a transcendence so plain

it's almost painful. You look away.

Have you felt it, the resistance?

You keep your head down, ignoring

this highest art, this dizzying variety

expanding slower than you can bear,

soft cathedrals stretching your patience.

You try to capture them in pictures but

these whales of light, like all true things,

refuse the cage. Slippery, they float on,

shifting, speaking in color: mortal red

or royal purple or gold you can taste

or black darker than death. Stare

and let the rippling layers

pierce you with their passing beauty.

Let them answer your undying question:

what survives this gorgeous unfolding?