A tree.

                A rock.

A laugh.

                A smile.

So ordinary, and yet so charged

With meaning, breathing life and depth and pain.

I look.

                I gaze.

I blink.  

                I see.

My heart quickens, is like to break

As wonder fills me, drives my pulse insane.

A word.

                A line.

A page.

                A tale.

Yet prose fails to vent my heart’s cry,

Falls flat as trumpet notes that fail to ring.

A rhyme.

                A sound.

A rhythm.

                A song.

And now my pen becomes a seer

To wash with chiming words my young soul clean.

It is only a drop in the ocean of thoughts written prettily

And yet, it is mine, and I give it freely.

My poem.