This morning aggressive clouds defied the sun
hovering like a nosy bystander expecting
to see something worthwhile to gossip.
But the hidden sun, brilliantly shinning
is what matched my mood.
A night's rest healed yesterday's petty wounds.
So what, if I wrote an artless poem,
senseless words understood by no one.
When I feel like the sun, there's enough
light to see my ego's trivialities,
When I feel like the sun
no clouds swallow my joy.
When I feel like the sun, I become
wordless poetry, living art.
Art is clarity, a form of love
belonging to us all,
like the sun.
(For Poets United.)