I sit in the hot tub—
marinating as healing—
eyes lifted skyward

watching great
nimbostratus nudged
along by gusts unseen—

who can see the wind?—

and along she comes
mottled gray as angels
sometimes are

arms outstretched
umbilically tied
to a trailing cloud

tugged along
in her wake
I follow her

northerly progress
scudding over tips
of wintering pines

until she merges
with another
clump of cumulus—

we are all one

she whispers—
as if I, tethered
earthling, need

the not-so-veiled
reminder that
disappearance

contains appearance,
the barely visible sign
of the never truly gone