I would visit the nature preserve on a sweet summer day,

Sun beating down on my latina skin,

With the breeze whistling through my hair,

And through my dark eyes I saw bright, wondrous images.

 

Paths through the trees that lead to critter burrows,

The flapping orange wings of the daunting monarch,

Insects resting on the cool ponds edge,

And rustling leaves of the hundred year old oak.

 

These scenes, I did not know how to portray,

My mouth was left ajar,

While my thoughts spun around my mind,

And I was left mute by natures designs.

 

But over time I learned the ability of my fingers,

How they could take a new pen and blank paper, 

And weave words into images.

My thoughts were finally able to speak.

 

I visited the preserve again in autumn,

Saw the animal trails covered by fallen leaves,

The fluttering moth that replaced the monarch,

And the trees in their new, vivid dresses.

 

Though this time I could speak,

Not aloud, 

But through my fingers,

As they transferred my pens ink to paper.