Cloudbirths

You dropped down,
O drop, becoming
eponymous with
from the top.
The clouds 
incontrovertibly 
represent the crop
of the crop, the 
cream of the 
dream, the 
shroud that 
today has no
thing to say
loud. Each 
drop, O drip,
rips a little
asphalt, 
ensuring 
this road
gets pocks.
Is that 
where 
rocks 
come 
from?
Did you
hear about
how trees
make their
run
at you?
It is from
you, largely,
and the mythical
yellow thing that sits 
up there, higher
even than you
on days when
your parents
are not in
the way.