Clouds

Novena Writing Prompt #3

The ever-changing clouds float over the parking lot
Billows piling high as a Texas bouffant.
Clouds mean change, an order constantly reordered,
ever transitioning
and shading an order man has imposed.

Below lie rigid lines, black pavement
cars whose roofs glitter like the carapace's of beetles
spread in an entomologist's tray.  Not sterile, but lifeless. Waiting

Waiting for rain to make iridescent rainbows in puddles,
Waiting for hail to dent the the cars and break the street lights,
Waiting for heat to crack the pavement
Waiting for weeds and ants and wind and sun
to reclaim what man has made.