the ever refining thermal utensils
are divinely working
on the shaping of every cloud.
while ever in transit,
invisibly riding on the tall backs
of windblown elephants of air
pachyderms, pushing vapor,
who stealthily graze on the prairie sky
are in search of whirling dervish furies
that are baked in the hothouse
of the sun.
cooked and churned by its daily gaze
and constantly with the heat-spoon stirring
yet as if always,
oven fresh in the making.
for we, in the weather lunch line
are there, to breath and see,
to tastefully to dine
on the buffet above and before us,
to sip each breath
and to climate-like every sight.
how fresh baked clouds
are delivered to us,
with the intent
of overwhelming delight . . .
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