Today is the beginning of naught
But I can pretend can’t I
That this is the place that poetry sought
In which to expel her restful sigh?
That sigh of beauty as it swells and breaths
Great lumbering words to feel and see
Of ocean melodies and Christmas wreaths
Of love that is writ over biscuits and tea
Of mountain men breaking trees with axes
Or the dangerous depths of the human soul
Of the lyricism that comes when Poetry relaxes
Or of God’s voice like a thunder roll
There are many things of which this can come
But I am not one to say
That this is the place Poetry does roam
When she wants to come out and play
