The Poet Writes
written by: Charlie Bottle
@CharlieBottle
When I walk on most mornings
the sun’s moved around awhile,
I breathe the crispy spring air,
as I walk the sidewalk, I watch
the green veil that hugs concrete,
dainty dewdrops dapple
the blades of grass,
split the sunlight
as lustrously as a diamond,
but these gems will dry by noon,
the grass, and the sun may forget,
but the poet remembers the dewdrops.
The fragrances of flowers delight me,
Jasmine, Clematis, Daphne and Katsura
rise to meet me from afar,
flying on the wind, their sweetness invites me,
butterflies and bees beat me
and flit bar hopping, sipping nectar,
when winter comes, poets sit cozy
in front of a wood fireplace,
bathed in the spice of pines,
cinnamon, and wood smoke,
remembering the fragrances
of Spring, Summer, and, Fall.
The cardinal flies as if surfing on wind,
and the robin glides from tree to tree,
I hear the morning doves,
the robin’s call, the chirps of sparrows,
finches, orioles, and, chickadees,
the sweet songs of the early day,
the breeze carries the sounds
of wind chimes, and rustling leaves,
of warbling brooks, with waters rushing,
tinkling, swishing, sloshing over rocks,
and at the end of the day, as I lie in bed
as I remember, a still calm envelopes me.
In the void white emptiness of winter,
when winds howl outside the window,
and find ways to feel its way
into the house, as cold drafts,
the drab snow, and nowhere to go
finds me musing, down nostalgic lanes,
I play hopscotch with memories
and throw words, like tiles before me,
in windows of thought, images come
floating randomly, with bits of music and song,
the poet touches each moment of thought,
and remembering weaves them into a poem.
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