i remember dad saying with that wistful air, i imagine dad floating on a cloud. 
i don't remember another thing he said about his dad, dead or living. i remember smiling, glass of wine, like a punch line forthcoming. thankfully i did not laugh because he almost cried. i can't think of my dad on a cloud. he'd be too heavy. i can't think of him light enough.
  

maybe thoughts of death seed the clouds and rain comes down like release.
 

death as kin. 
of birth
like a cicada
splits in back and comes out green and winged.
no maybe our death
is not like that
of a mysterious insect.
it's a mystery though.
death is a way of thinking.
thinking about life.
but clouds turn to rain
and angels come down.