A cloud has always been many things to many people. A fluffy child’s drawing, the stuff of wedding nightmares, a sofa for the angels, a thing to dress up as. But whatever this universal shapeshifter was, it was always free. Until we put an i in front of its name, stuffed it with billions of pieces of data we want to access 24/7 and tethered it to a Carolina warehouse. How does it feel about all this? I asked it in this i-Cloud poem.
You turned me into a national obsession
with your endless predictions of the weather.
You oversaw my transformation
from cotton wool fluff to sunshine eraser.
While I worked magic with water and air
you made me the spoiler of a summer fayre.
You picked up a pencil and began to draw me
giving me nodules and a childish shape.
In the years that followed you reproduced me
as a cherub accessory at heaven’s gate.
I cheered when you made my cumulus look real
louder still when you gave me mass appeal.
You made me a metaphor and overused me.
Cranking it up with all that wandering,
personifying nature on your daffodil sprees.
(Distracting, floating over all that fluttering!)
Sometimes you didn’t even trust me with flying
but gave me a guide of thunder and lightning.
Your happiness took you to my nine
you lined me with silver compensation,
while I always suspect that half the time
you prayed I wouldn’t come on your vacation.
You bizarrely compared me to heavenly hair
and moated puddings suspended in air.
And then you invented the internet
added an ‘i’ at the front of my name,
filled me with chips instead of droplets
and stuck me where I couldn’t make rain.
On a solar farm in the hills of Carolina
I was trapped into being a data storer.
Cooled not by wind but air conditioners,
furnished with rows of rack based servers.
I became weighed down by e-mails and pictures,
driven by generators, targeted by hackers.
I gave you data access twenty four seven
while missing the freedom of accessing heaven.
Often compared to a hard disk in the sky.
Endlessly sending to your device
I can no longer rise or go floating by
and I sigh at your selfies in snow and ice.
If I could be my fluffy self again
I’d condense all your data and make it rain.
This post is part of the Prose4Thought linky.