Never could I be so clever
As to think I was on the brink.
Yet so close, had I moved an inch,
I would to the bottom sink.
I am a master, not of thought,
For that would mean intelligence.
No, just a master of what I survey
In all its beautiful elegance.
Let the birds build their homes
And wake me with their shrills.
For I, poor soul that I am,
Their morning songs give me a thrill.
Crickets at night
Cicadas through the day
Sing their songs to my delight
Michael D.
Ron
Love ya!
Jane