Turner Road, Just Past the Freeway

I am wisps of mist and fog bound together by nothing but air,

Fully immersed in cleansing blue skies.

I am a lone raincloud,

A sole survivor

Of a storm.

I stand, a pilgrim of pure fluff, before the

Sun in its temple of cold November

Atmosphere.

I am a piece of cotton

Floating on vespers, carried,

With my edges once torn in soot

Now whiter than fresh linen.