The sky strata  grow wider for the asking.
You asking you want to be the shepherd
In mountains to negotiate endless space.
Your flock has endless feet for counting.
You know you want to stop conversation.

Your weather is sun hid in backyard tree.
Its rain is deep in hiding in a beach sea.
Its clouds are nightly television thunder.
Moon has tell-tale circles like tired eyes.
They tell you rain may or may not come.


About nisheedhi

Retired banker with poetry and photography as chief interests
This entry was posted in Nature poetry, weather and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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