Poetry does not come
Easily.
It all but dies on my fingertips.
As words I try to capture
Jumble around
In letters I can not comprehend.
Poetry does not come
Easily.
It comes with
Beauty yes
But it comes with
Suffering too.
Poetry does not come
Easily.
It all but dies on my
Fingertips.
As the words
Fly
Like a Child's Kite
In the breezess of
Springtime.
Copyright Michelle R Kidwell
3:58 P.M PST
1/22/2012