Long life clouds

Love
Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills.
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn’t matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn’t always understand.
Czeslaw Milosz

God Bless The World
Mighty God, Father of all,
Compassionate God, Mother of all,
bless every person I have met,
every face I have seen,
every voice I have heard,
especially those most dear;
bless every city, town,
and street that I have known,
bless every sight I have seen,
every sound I have heard,
every object I have touched.
In some mysterious way these
have all fashioned my life;
all that I am, I have received.
Great God, bless the world.

A few years back, I had gone to Oahu, Hawaii to work. (I was working. Cross my heart.) My evening ritual: adjourning to write, at a restaurant with tables on a patio looking out onto the southwestern horizon and Pacific Ocean. One night, a man sitting at a table nearby asked what I was writing.
I told him, “It’s part of a book.”
“What’s your book about?”
“I don’t know yet,” I told him.
“That might not be easy to sell,” he offered.
I tell myself I know why he is eating alone.
“Okay,” I conceded. “Let’s say it’s about life.”
“That really narrows it down.” He said, probably assuming I had been in the sun too long.
“Fair enough,” I admitted. “But check this out.”

I pointed toward the horizon. The sun slid into the Pacific Ocean less than ten minutes before. The western sky is still lit, as if backlit. The heavens are filled with a literal symphony of clouds. I can honestly say that I have never seen anything like this before, not even in a photo. I thought I knew clouds. But I count seven or eight different types in the panorama; yet know the names of only three. In the foreground, there are clouds made of some delicate fabric, like chenille perhaps, or something similar to the doilies on the back of my grandmother’s sofa. Off to northwest, clouds form, bulky billows of ash grey, as if residue from the collapse of great buildings. From my table I see cloud shapes and figures, a pirate ship, a UFO, and a ballerina. Beyond the ash grey cloud to the north, the sky is pewter blue. As we sip our drinks and watch, the formations alter and dance and evolve, an unfolding drama, better than any “must see” TV show. Behind us we hear the music from an outdoor nightspot.