He raises his hand,
The sun peeks over the edge of the earth.
He taps his foot rhythmically,
Color slowly fills the sky.
His gloved fingers hover,
The birds hold a high note.
He gives a sweep with his other hand,
In joins the dwindling breeze.
Holding one hand, he points and summons,
The rest of the orchestra flutters through the melody.
His music sweeps the world over through day.
Then, as the sun sets,
The pace slows again as musicians retreat.
He takes a bow,
And the sun goes down.
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YOU ARE READING
Your Heart is My Harp
PoetryYour heart is my harp. With my poems, I'll try and show you how I pluck the strings. I'll try and pluck the strings of your heart, Creating happiness and joy and laughter with these poems. They're just silly little ones, but maybe, just maybe, they...
