Cumulus, Fog, and Stratus, as you scud,

tumble, and blow, guard over dear Brierre.

Shelter her. Be a cushion when she falls,

a beacon when she’s lost. Answer when she calls.

Keep low. Stay close, like mud

to a shoe, or a reflection to a mirror.

When she stops, either to take

a drink, hoping that water will slake

her deeper thirst, or catch her breath,

or think before choosing this or that path,

stay with her. The wind says you’re allowed

to recruit her: her lightness,

mutability, independence, and brightness

surely qualify her to be a cloud.