The Sun, The Wind

Each poem is perfect,
Yet each is imperfect.
For poetry is like the wind.
Can you tell wind to blow?
Each poem is like the sun.
Can you tell sun to shine?
Yet when it makes hot,
We wish the sun to set
And the winds to increase,
But who are we to command
The sun, or the wind?

And when winds cause havoc
We wish them to subside,
And when winter is harsh
We wish the sun to bloom,
But each remains like a seed
Blossoming it their time.
Yet the sun is perfect,
And the wind is perfect,
For nothing can we add
Or take from the either.

Poetry is like the wind,
Poetry is like the sun.

Copyright ©2010 Leslie Alexis