Temporary Tempers

he was a man of nature
without a mushroom patch to stand in
or a hill to stand on
to watch clouds

so his fingers spun strands of stormy
hurricane hair around and around
vacant eyes

until his body rose from the chair to go,
to borrow air from the empty sky
and thought on how we are often filled with subtle vapors that lift
and carry our days and ways
(these humors)

and ease our passing
and reshape every moment
and fade, like clouds