2 Poems

There is night in the day sometimes,
Scattered selves again and again;
Going around in their dark begrimes,
Laying their traps for their den.

There are clouds in the sky rushing,
Through hours of blue and to dark;
With breeze of their ways gushing,
In the hills with mischievous lark.

**

Time will come again,
With beauty of all things;
Simple things and plain,
In the heart then sings.

When summer will rise,
In the blue and the green;
And each day diversifies,
What you haven't yet seen.