Tumbling under and over,
Endlessly rolling on,
Above a field of clover,
Forever heading toward the dawn.

White and puffy,
Large and weightless,
They look so fluffy,
But are no more than mist.

Dark below and white above,
With rain enough to fill the creeks,
All that water could give a shove,
To anyone in the path of the flood.

Ryan Brooks

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clouds-59/