PAINTED CLOUDS

I walk the morning, the air has a chill and a breeze,

Out In the distance, above the hills, they float like balloons.

Shapes or sizes and colors of difference,

Splashed across the sky are painted clouds.

Vanish, they go away for a moment In time,

Reinvented, shaped from heaven above.

Pastel colors appeared In my sight,

Rays of light from the sun trying to peek through.

An Invisible smile, a memory of a face sketched,

Forever In my mind, eyes of beauty, a voice that echoes

Through the clouds.

Keith Garrett