From Above

I often glance up at the clouds
From miles and miles below
And marvel at the shapes and wonder
Where they seem to go.

From gossamer to cotton ball,
They shift and drift on high
To pique our interest in
The giant canvas of the sky.

Yet looking down upon them
From the window of a plane,
They hardly seem to move at all,
But in their spots remain.

Suspended wisps or mountain groups
They float, so blinding white
And surely everyone should gawk
With absolute delight.

Still, jaded passengers refrain
From even one quick glance 
But oh, I love to watch the clouds
When I'm allowed the chance.