Mystery

Like marshmallow cream piled high in mounds,
miles of clouds, tipped by the sun's golden sheen,
create a carpet of cotton wool,
hiding the world somewhere below.
What could be beneath the snowy blanket?
Do mountains poke and prod,
trying to break through
smothering layers of roiling mist?

Perhaps forests of giant trees
march in endless ranks toward the sky.
A patchwork quilt of living fields
might spread unseen from on high.
Alas, the riders in the red and silver bird
might never know what vistas
they may never see other than
a sky-scape of endless white.