Movement

There's inspiration in a leaf, the sun the sky, a newborn baby's hungry cry, the politics of men, the art of zen; it's in his eyes, the robin tugging worms that brings us spring, an empty backyard swing, the price of gas, the passion of a soul who's reaching out for dreams that never come guilt free; a single rose, a mother's grief for sons and daughters lost before their time, your friends and mine, the coupled grace that dwells where hearts know love, the cooing of a dove, in winter's white-washed face, an eddy's spin, the colors ending summer's shading green, in haunting longings that deny a face its smile; it's in the quest for inner peace, loblolly Georgian pines that carry tunes of singing frogs that brings your mind back home; you'll find it in a bite of birthday cake, your father's wake, a graduation's pomp and circumstance, the solitary dance of someone's loneliness and private tears, the hell from raging fears; it's in the wind, the moon and evening stars, and in the end, it's essence is the breath of memory. In life is where a poet finds his words.