Bitter skies give dawn to replenished earth.
A man dies, and the child is born anew,
Though I find no inspiration in such birth
Nor can this muse show me anything of worth.
I know the tepid breath of spring inspires
Countless scribes and endless verses, too
But nature in all her celebrated fire,
Within my thoughts grow forlorn and tired.
Let Wordsworth keep his lonely clouds
And Whitman to plant his leafy grass
To Dionysus's hands, I am not bound
Nor in Liber's service am I found.
For a tree can not please my artistic mind
Like a man's reply to his tormented past.
Can a rainbow feel a thousand ways
When a lover looks the other way?
Waterfalls and rocks and tinted leaves
Can I do no justice with my trusted pen
When a hopeless woman still believes
And though is blind, she still can see.
The motivation I desire to call forth
Is the love and hurt from which it's stemmed.
No, I admit nature gives this writer no worth
As bitter skies give dawn to replenished earth.
April 4, 2007