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Poet "Tree"
June 9, 2015
Minutes fade with summer’s warmth
Tick…tick…tick…
Soon nature will speak to me through September’s breeze,
As inked hands glide across blue, spiral notebook,
And unwanted scribbles scatter wrinkled paper.
Clock’s music reminds me of lost time.
9 months later…
Hands of a poet trace the world of nature,
Like the out of doors, the forest is my poem,
Just waiting for birth on “leaves of grass.”*
*Walt Whitman
© Michael H., Milford, CT
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