I can almost taste the clouds
drifting along the murky sky
dissolving on my tongue.
Tastes like a lump of salted cotton.

I can almost feel the stone-colored sky
as it cradles the fragile clouds,
creamy paint brushing my fingertips.

I can almost see the thunder
a grey lion as tall as Mount Everest
roaring, its breath drops of water.
It kicks my eardrums.

I can almost hear the raindrops
fall from the bloated clouds,
a bow piercing, slicing the air
Close your eyes.
Imagine millions of them.

I can almost smell the end
moist soil perfuming the air
blades of grass freshly cut
a pinch of lavender, rosemary, thyme.
Now open.