The Poem

The poem that I write today Has always been a thought away. But do I think of trees, or birds, As I slyly meter out my words? Or do I think of spring, or fall, Of summertime, the sea and all? Perhaps it is a moon-rinsed night That prods me so to sit and write-- Or it could be a drop of rain, If not some nagging doubt, or pain. What drives my pen to wander so, To touch the sky; the earth below? Of all the thoughts, both old and new-- I ponder most the thought of you. And so the poet takes his pen... Writes words of love, and falls again! --Mel