Clouds

There once was a woman with hair made of clouds

she wasn't very tall, so they didn't come from the sky,

they were all her own.

When she'd walk by the shops and through the streets,

her hair would whisp and turn pearly white when the children smiled

and asked to touch it.

When she grew excited, her hair would puff and grow,

a bright smile flashing across her face like lightning, all at once

dangerous and beautiful.

She loved her village and they loved her,

though they grew and were no longer fascinated by clouds for hair

and the woman blended into the scenery

Time went on and her village went on, too,

picking up and moving along, until the streets were empty

and the shops were dusty.

The woman called for the life that had hummed beneath her feet,

but it didn't answer, instead it withered before her eyes,

shifted into ruins as the years passed.

Now if you travel close to the village that was home

to the woman with hair made of clouds,

they say another has taken her place.

They say there was once a woman with hair made of clouds,

but now it hangs in brown and limp strings,

just like everyone else's.