Writing To Her
Again, I sit beneath 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 at my feet the critters creep.
I wait to see what words will form
A quiet tale or one of storm
Leaves they move, dance and rest.
Sun moves too, towards the west.
Moons will rise and birds will flock.
Days will pass and months will clock.
And so with all the passing time
I wait upon the proper rhyme
I touch the old but never the new
Still I write on - with thoughts of you.
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