Writing
At times I sit between the trees
Pen and paper on my knees
I look for something new not old
I search for story never told
Between the branches squirrels leap
While near my feet critters creep
I wait to hear the special sound
Of story falling to the ground
Leaves they move and dance with rest
Sun moves too, towards the west
I look to see what letters form
A quiet tale or one of storm
Suns they set and birds did flock
Days did pass and months still clock
The letters came from up above
And simply spelt the words of love
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