Under the Tree
Leaves to ponder.
Branches, I am under.
I choose to take a nap.
And wake up to a drop of sap.
And the imprint in the grass from my notebook.
But still, not having found a great hook.
I trace the outline of a leaf.
Which should give me some relief.
But still, my poem is not complete.
I give a squirrel my last pickled beet.
I try to write poetry out here.
About a rabbit, a dog, or even a deer.
If writing poetry was easy…
Then why can’t I find the perfect tree?
Outside, it’s 76 degrees.
But still my ideas seem to freeze.
Poetry to ponder…
That pond over yonder…
The one with the frogs…
That hop over logs…
I wake up under the shade.
Ideas I had made.
But believe it or not, a rabbit stole my pen!
So I guess tomorrow, I’ll be out here again.
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