Riddles and Guesses

I think the flowers are trees laughing out loud

when the sunbeams tickle their leaves.

I know the cloud trails are skies wrinkling their skin

when they dream long and hard over fields.

I guess the ocean is earth sweating hard

when it keeps its spin dance around Sun.

I assume all the beings are stories,

we’re what-ifs of a departed artist,

we’re his trail on an ancient notebook,

we’re a script left to grow and unfold,

moving slowly the hand of the master,

leading gently the gaze of the artist.