Skies

The skies are not afraid
when birds soar high.
When sun spreads yellow,
when clouds cry,
the sky remains mundane,
prosaic and dry.

Sky has never demurred
of the birds puttering around.
Never once complained
of the elements
spotting it’s vastness,
drawing patterns across.
Sky never screams in agony
when the thunder rips it apart,
It remains unambigious
letting the cloud do it’s part.

My beautiful mansion

I build mansion in the air.
Thoughts like the wind.
Swaying my hopes, the sands, the clouds,
Hoping for my weather patterns to take care
of the blueprints and wherewithal.

My incremental actions,
create gardens around the mansion.
Manicured gardens, natural landscape.
The winds spread the seeds,
in the fertile lands.
What grows, trees and weeds.