When daybreak comes and I no longer care

to listen for the mourning doves first cry,

anticipate the sunrise in the sky

or smell the apple blossoms in the air

my passion to write poetry will die.

When night falls and I hear no symphony

in creatures that were once so dear to me,

when heaven is not magic to my eyes

and rivers do not draw me to their side,

my passion to write poetry will die.

When miracles are only fantasy

and justice doesn’t matter much to me,

my purpose in this life will cease to be;

hope is written in my poetry.

Susan Maree Jeavons