Envy those who only view
The sun setting, in the setting sun.
Who awe at pyrotechnic skies
But then forget till next July,
Or in the surf that crashes shores,
Or a hawk that rides the wind and soars -
Who never start from sleep at night
To find a pen and pad to write,
And in the loss of love and life
Don’t have to find a place to write and cry -
Drawn within a lonely sigh.
What we do, we do alone.
When inspired we shun the loud;
Seek solace from the boisterous crowd.
Is ours really a gift to seek?
Is our language so truly odd?
They smile, feign knowing, with a nod.
But in the end, I’d like to think
When years have flown and I am gone,
A question’s asked in a loving home,
“Whatcha doin’ Josh?”
“I’m reading great grampa’s poems.”
Inspired by Cyndi MacMillan's poem "The Other-wise"
*the first two lines are from Cyndi's poem