Love is the language of clouds,
from the fluffy cumulus of courtship
to the towering cumulonimbus of the first fight
flinging lightning at the unsuspecting earth.
It is the wispy wondering of cirrus
and the slow, leaden weeping of stratus.
On rare occasions it allows a clear view
of lenticular clouds encircling a solitary truth,
or the rounded mounds of mammatus clouds
filling the sky with all that is to be desired.
Love is the weather of the soul,
and whatever shape it takes,
it always emerges where
the cool dry air of the mind
meets a warm wet wind from the heart.