With orange wisps of cloud,
You give your display
As though I were the only one,
But rather you deserve ten thousand to my one.
How do I describe
What sages and poets once tried?
Dark blues dance into purple,
And purples play into pink
And pinks into oranges with beauty in such a feat.
I struggle to grasp the words,
As though they were your clouds.
Now passing pale purples,
Before your bright canvas,
Show your inflamed glory that stays.
Yet you do not stay the same;
Your beauty constantly changes.
Your brightness and light give way
To the darkness of night
And to flashes of lightning strikes.
You dim this day,
Your yellows and oranges mere dreams instead.
In your place, grayish blues
And worrisome clouds take your stead
In a harrowing tempest foretold.
The winds pick up,
They rustle through the trees,
And thunder rumbles
In the distance
As you fade away.
And yet before this all,
In my audience of one,
I see through the pond's reflection,
A bright red orb of fire dancing,
You, the elusive and fiery August sun.