Finding the Words
Again, I sit between the trees,
Pen and paper on my knees.
I look for something new not old.
I search for story never told.
Between the branches squirrels leap.
While near my feet the critters creep.
I wait to hear the special sound,
Of story falling to the ground.
Leaves they move, dance and rest.
Sun moves too, towards the west.
Moons will rise and birds will flock.
Days will pass and months will clock.
Away the breeze carries the birds.
At the air I grasp for words.
I touch the old and never the new.
Still I keep on - with thoughts of you.
Copyright © Jerry Hackett | Year Posted 2021
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