If I Were a Poet

Clouds march across the sky;
“Stop!” I command,
but they continue on.
The sun follows its course;
I protest,
but it slips away behind the hills.
In the quiet darkness
my heart is a metronome,
keeping time.
As I fall asleep, I wonder
at this strange new thought,
that time can be kept.
The sun rises,
and I, a little older,
consider what I should shout at the sky today.
Maybe instead I will just listen.