I woke up to a sky of grey
a hiding sun, a rainy day
clouds of hail - stormy what nots
rotund, dang and heavy drops
I said to them, be my poem.
Then the clouds of storm cleared
the golden orb appeared
a rainbow spilled color on the grass
the blossoms sang sweetly - unasked
I said to them, be my poem
To the poor man on the street
and the rag picker with bare feet
the cobbler and the fruit seller
the palmist and the fortune teller
I said to them, be my poem
To a new born and then, flesh on a pyre
the wind that whisks ashes from fire
to the fragrance of spring and the frost of cold
the stench of garbage and the scent of rose
I said to them, be my poem
I turned to love, anger and defeat
laughed with humour and cried with grief
traced the many fleeting expressions on a face
fluid movements and those without grace
I said to them, stay and be my poem
Then I paused, I looked within -inside
into my heart and into my mind
so I could meet myself and know
see and hear, feel and grow
So that one day, I too may become a poem
Repost, reworked