like a fern in the sky
the clouds do go by
up in the deep blue sky
lazily drifting so high
white as if cleaned by lye
fluffy as a loaf of rye
they do come to say hi
then float past to say bye
morning sun so shiny and bright
blinding us at dawn’s first light
harkening the end of long night
the mountains so still as in fright
as cold rays turn to warm might
reaching toward the sky for a bite
of tasty clouds of rye all alight
out of reach even with mighty height