Anvils, anchors, and pianos mingle
In fluffy sacks that lumber overhead.
Water’s ruthless mass inside a single
Cloud is enough to knock a village dead.
Though they may hover frail, innocuous,
Their power to pummel us looms harsh and dire.
The cataclysmic weather they might sock to us
Exposes mellow mildness for a liar.
The deaths and dislocations they contain
Waft effortless as if they measured nil,
But when their deluge starts, its news of pain
Has savage, wanton bulletins to spill
Of cartoon downpours weighty in our sky,
Menacing where they grace and beautify.