I’m climbing a ladder
of cumulonimbus
white clouds higher
and higher in a milky
blue sky carrying a
knapsack of my poems
written in calligraphy.
I can’t remember who
they are for as I see
homeless old men
descending carrying
bottles of Boswellia.
Upper branches of
Century-old trees look
like they are dancing
their very last dance.
I call my wife to let her
know I may be late for
dinner, and then recall
she isn’t there anymore.
I weep gargantuan tears
as I slide back down to
the emptiness of my life.