An Artist

He painted a picture on a windy day,

The wind blew sheets around the park.

Waves of the ocean danced a ballet,

Each time creating arch.

He painted a picture on a windy day,

The tree leaned towards ground.

A little ray of sunshine played its game,

Trying to get out of the cloud.

He painted a picture on a windy day,

But the easel stood without moving.

Three legs of it stood firmly and obeyed,

Holding paper like a mother holding newborn baby.

He painted a picture on a windy day,

But he didn’t want to be an artist.

There was no desire to draw at all,

But the brush was already touched.