T.

Heaven


April snow descends
as I cross the parking lot

to the mall where nine harpists pluck.

The sun emerges — steam rises
in sinuous billows from the pavement:

I drift through clouds.

All along I've wanted to say 


that I reside in cumulonimbus, 

but it's too dreamy to admit, too flimsy.

Too much the poet.
But here, finally:
swirling evidence at my feet.