Deep in the woods
on a tiny hill
overlooking a stream
I long ago found
what seemed to be
a foundation..
a definate sign
that something
once was there.
the open well
not far away
said many things...
I often go there
to sit upon the rocks
in the late summer sun..
Alone with the wind
listening to Her poetry....
(the wind is A poet you know.)
She whispers on dew drops
sunsets and snowflakes..
rain intoxicates her,
she dances with lightening
as thunder roars around them..
The wind writes poetry
that has no words...
it needs no words..
to hear it
one needs only
to listen...