What he sees everyday are clouds

and sometimes the moon is a cloud too
breaking white through a fine blue sky
and there may be blossoms, petals, falling
from a tree in bloom, or dandelion fluff
his little sister has whispered into air.
He takes my hand: there are small spirits
on the wind, he asks their names, but I
do not know them, so he suggests
singing, he suggests dance, he suggests we
run, but I cannot, so I am now only
a watcher, applauding as he turns his four
year old hands toward the sky, yes, I see,
a great whale has breached, it rises, it spins,
and pale ladies in pale hooped dresses
spin and spin, in their tiny whale-bone stays
and we whisper Simone, we whisper Vesper,
we whisper Celestine.