Kennedy in August

Kennedy in August, under the
sun that is falling
behind a vast green:
I watch, as every second goes by,
the clouds swim
in an ocean of their very own.
A bird, from a field of emeralds,
flaps into a stroke of shy amber
hidden between two mountains,
like a tiny spark of wild fire.
The flame burns through the white veil,
and tints its surroundings
with different shades of gold.

I was taught to write
with a purpose, a moral,
or at least a message - but today,
there is no message that I want
to convey, while I am sitting in awe,
on the Friday concrete I am seemingly melting into,
staring at such a beautiful reality that
I have never noticed before -
the same view from my balcony,
the same heat in Summer,
the same mountains and sky.
Only, I am now a house of gratitude
and a million moments of joy.