“May I stretch across the plains,
spread on out ’til evening wanes?
Might I bubble up so high,
to touch the starlight in the sky?
Could I feather wispy thin,
collect myself ’til whole again?
Can I drift down very low,
and fog the city lights that glow?”
A little cloud with mother-dear,
asks what he may do while here.
“My darling son, we must move slow,
the fun will come, but first, snow.”
*Joining in with others this November, using the Write Alm prompts found here- http://writealm.com/november-prompt-a-day/36 degrees