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 peak 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