On a windy, warm, spring afternoon
Laying down on the cold, soft grass
With blades of green tickling my skin.
As I look up to the sky,
I see the bright blue ceiling,
With little white splaters of paint
Floating through, covering the blue.
I stare into the sky, in wonder
Who was the creator of this piece of art?
Just looking at the sky, is breathtaking.
It's almost like, the creator was holding a paint brush
And that paint brush formed the perfect cloud
And that paint brush created every little dot in the sky
And that paint brush painted a masterpiece
That masterpiece now rests in his hands
And is now the most beautiful thing in world.
I really like this poem. The picture you posted with it fits very nicely. It's cool how you never come out and say exactly who the "creator" is. Also, very good use of a repetative pattern at the end.
ReplyDeleteThis is a great poem, Angela! I really like the idea of it and the picture fits it really well! Great job!
ReplyDeleteI really like this poem. You were really descriptive but left some things unanswered which left the reader with something to think about. Great job! :)
ReplyDeleteThis was a really nice spiritual piece, contemplating the work of the Creator. The poem works for you oon many levels, including the structure and repetition that you used.
ReplyDeleteI really like your poem! I like the picture too. :)
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