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
Copyright © Mel Merrill | Year Posted 2015
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