Well Versed In The Weather

The death of a cloud is a lonely thing
A song for minstrels but not for kings
They whither and die
Before the winds that fly.

A paint brush drawn across the sky
Touch wispy clouds a-flying high.
The setting sun beholds their flight
With dreams of roses red and white.

Trees of autumn above green grass
The gold and crimson will soon all pass
Another year of green has ended
Harvest fields must now be tended.

Herons, whippoorwills and crows
The hummingbird that quickly goes
All fly by so swiftly and free
And dream a dream of days to be.

Sunflowers raise their petal heads
Among the green and floral red
Of rain they speak
This afternoon.

The death of a cloud is a lonely thing
A song for minstrels but not for kings
They whither and die
Before the winds that fly.