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