People only view you
from far, far away.
You are the richest painting,
the tops of the tallest trees;
to be seen,
but never touched.

Your arms stretch,
and swell, but never seem to strain,
though the clouds swirl
above your golden curls.
The storm above
just bides it's time.

The rains drop heavily,
on your over-burdened shoulders.
You are solid and strong,
but struggling to raise
the gray mass
that would tear you down.

Don't let the rains fall
now, when you have come so far.
Not when I am here for you.
Here, raise your arms again,
and we will raise
the clouds again together.