A tree.

          A rock.

A laugh.

           A smile.

So ordinary, and yet so charged

With meaning, breathing depth and life and pain.

I look.

         I gaze.

I blink.

         I see.

My heart quickens, is like to break

As wonder fills  me, drives my pulse insane.

A word.

           A line.

A page.

           A tale.

Yet prose fails to vent my heart's cry,

Falls flat as trumpet notes that fail to ring.

A rhyme.

             A sound.

A rhythm.

             A song.

And now my pen becomes a seer

To wash with chiming words my young soul clean.

 

It is only a drop in the ocean of thoughts written prettily

And  yet, it is mine, and I give it freely.

My poem.