The Poet's Mind

THE POET’S MIND As tiny as a mustard seed That none could foresee or Imagine its measure of proceed In a field that seems as poor. A grain of wheat Sown in the muck of earth And it’s corrupted by its grit Yet spring anew into rebirth. Is a fall and rise of the tide You never can tell Of what mood or tone to confide That’s conceiving as the stars compel. As free as the wind does flows Sailing around every hill Without limit to where it goes Of which every one can feel. Like a lonely adventurer On familiar fields traversing And through spheres that are bizarre In quest into the enigma of living. It is but a little acorn Exposed to all weather Choked or adorn It spring up an oak, never to waver.