Cloudland

After having walked miles with the Night
to let the dew soak into her pores, 
her secret small self 
peeked out of her misty sleepiness,
reaching with little hands 
to try and catch the memory wisps,
those sneaky little swirls in the Cloudland
that mix the shells of her old asides
with the now-feelings of 
periwinkle, cadet blue, 
a little bit of almond and razzmatazz, 
perhaps even a dash of mauvelous --
the small one that was fearful smiles 
and wiggles into the warm thought-space 
of these now-feelings, 
cupping the bright ribbons
shot through with 
happy bursts of surprise kisses, 
the threads of a new paisley pattern,
something beautiful like Sylvia Plath;
"This is the evening's entertainment,"
she remembers her mom whispering,
so she burrows into the quiet, cool darkness
of the fog illuminated by a single streetlamp
and reads the messages 
in the strings of random letters 
on the postcards
she found littered on the ground.