The Evolution of Clouds
Memories play out,
slow, mutable clouds shifting
subtly across the expanse of blue years,
becoming truer than what was, like paintings do.
Was there ever a sunflower more real
than Van Gogh’s, or a chair?
These days, we’ve become
frank and thorough videophiles,
recording digital truths that,
taken together frame by frame, add up
to less than our sums, sorely
lacking the clarity of nuance:
the sweetness of Williams’ icebox plums,
the call of Oliver’s wild geese, the way Proulx’s
Rancher Croom rises on air like a cork in a bucket of milk.