When wind made clouds far overhead a heart,
you witnessed – stunned – a stratospheric art.
Through life, we learn to heed the vital signs;
a breath, a beat, a meaning between the lines.
A rose can’t grow from a dandelion seed,
but a plant will never think itself a weed.
Exuberant, abstract, expressionistic limbs,
meander, scribbles, at the breezes’ whims.
We may declare our minds are open, but
what’s the good of that if hearts are shut?
The sun just shines and doesn’t have to preach
for trees to strive toward it though out of reach.
Mountain slopes, if looked at properly,
become a woman – no one’s property.
Mario A. Pita