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