I'm watching as the low stratus clouds ride

After Wyatt's 'Sonnet 22'

I'm watching as the low stratus clouds ride
the wind and bring rain. As the turning day
is met with light, the birds begin to say
their names. The growing tree is what provides
a space for nests, the Moon moves ocean tides
into the marsh. The clouds get dark and may
expend themselves above us, I am always
seeing their changing colors. The clouds deny
the earth its Sun, their veils obscure the bride
from bridegroom. Like a carpet, the leaves lay
on the soft ground and the young squirrels are playing
with the acorns. I see her curving sides
and blushing lips. None of these words explain
her mystery—I'll never know for certain.