Poetry Is a Sketch Pad
Poetry is a sketch pad,
You can write what you feel or see,
You can pen about a single flower,
Or maybe about your pajamas that are comfy.
My sketch pad has a lone maple leaf today,
That floats in a puddle by my door,
It has lost its connection with its tree,
Each day it withers more and more.
Not long ago it was vibrant green,
Then it changed to the color red,
It once sat among thousands of scarlet shoots,
And together they made a fiery gem.
Now it waits for winter's ice and snow,
As it drifts in the well by my door,
The Autumn Blaze has spent its days,
And soon we'll have the dreaded winter phase.
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