The wind blows the trees around.
by Victor S. Wallace
The shadows constantly changing on the ground.
The Sun goes behind a Cloud.
The shadows silently disappear in the shroud.
The cloud floats out of sight. The Sun is instantly out bright.
From nowhere, the shadows are back,
Maneuvering skillfully right on track.
Shadow is shade; Rest! Our dues are paid
Shadows come and move to and fro.
On a hot day, we know where to go.
A shadow never controls itself,
But the Painter, regulates each shadow by himself.
God's paintbrush is always busy, - never on the shelf.