Friday, November 23, 2012

On Poetry.

Here, on this cold autumn day
the wind blows every which way
and singes, gently, my face.

But it cannot erase
what this place
represents to my mind, my heart.

The lake waters, cool
to the touch; the birds,
as if by rule and such,
sing beautiful and loud.

Here, away from the crowds,
I am reminded why poetry
is the highest art.

Soon I breathe deep and depart,
hearing nothing but
the crunch of leaves
and the whispers of trees.

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