cloud cartography

i've always thought
of myself as a map maker--
charting shoreline--
giving islands
their silhouettes--
i see myself-- pen &
ink over a scroll
of paper-- sextant
measuring cliff contours--
the small of her back--
a grotto--
i'd conjure sea monsters
in the four corners of
my maps-- the kraken
with his tentacles
thrashing-- gripping
the hem of capes--
our bays are full 
of sirens-- yes
the life of a map
maker 
would be thrilling
but i think if i were
to pick  another profession
i would taken to mapping
the clouds-- 
they're uncharted--
un-tethered-- 
i would take my scroll
& lay on my back--
the map would of
course never be finished--
hour by hour as the clouds
moved i would erase 
their lines-- i would
give them new names--
today the peaks of Saint
Celphalophore carry their
own heads-- these
martyrs-- breaking
collasping
into new bodies--
the clouds don't hold
onto  each other--
the sky is full of krakens--
& the best part would
be that i would never 
need to be done--
no one would be
there when the sun went
down to check & see
if i had been productive
that day-- 
i would simply
hold up my blank slice
of parchment-- the tracks
of clouds erased & drawn
over & over--
another day another 
cumulonimbus to name--
another mountain born from
mist-- roaming over
the sky--
as dusk dropped around
me each night 
like a great knitted shawl
i would pray to 
the clouds whose skeletons
i came to know so well--
i'd laugh with
them & ask
-- will 
you ever ever ever
hold still for me?