The Poet's Mind
THE POET’S MIND
As tiny as a mustard seed
That none could foresee or
Imagine its measure of proceed
In a field that seems as poor.
A grain of wheat
Sown in the muck of earth
And it’s corrupted by its grit
Yet spring anew into rebirth.
Is a fall and rise of the tide
You never can tell
Of what mood or tone to confide
That’s conceiving as the stars compel.
As free as the wind does flows
Sailing around every hill
Without limit to where it goes
Of which every one can feel.
Like a lonely adventurer
On familiar fields traversing
And through spheres that are bizarre
In quest into the enigma of living.
It is but a little acorn
Exposed to all weather
Choked or adorn
It spring up an oak, never to waver.
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