I wonder what it’s like to taste a cloud,
to feel its frothy dream melt on my tongue.
Vanilla overtones I do not doubt
would rise, accumulate, and linger long.
Or maybe taste depends upon the form.
The Cirrus high and feathery, light and plain.
The Cumulonimbus a mouth of storm
with lightening zings between the hints of rain.
A handful of puffed Cirrocumulus
like popcorn buttered in afternoon’s tint.
And a slice of grey, low-lying Stratus
might perfectly pair with lemon and mint.
Grounded, I dream, imagining flavor words.
For truth, I’ll have to learn the tongue of birds.
By Dayna Patterson
Dayna's poem is a runner up for our third poetry contest. Thank you, Dayna, for your submission!