In looking back at all I've written,
I say, "These words didn’t come from me;
Somebody else is doing all this,
Much too well written the words flow free."

I’ll get to the bottom of this,
Find the one who is writing these;
There has to be a poet somewhere,
Maybe hiding outside in the trees.

In looking outside, I find no one,
So in the garage I take a look;
No, there’s nothing in there but the cars,
And an old bike hanging on a hook.

Then I take a peek in the shed,
But there’s no one hanging around;
There’s not a soul by the frog pond,
Maybe he’s hiding underground.

My search outside turns up no one,
I take the hunt into the house;
First thing I check is the basement,
There’s nothing down there but a mouse.

Next thing I check is the closets,
No one’s hiding among the clothes;
What a strange mystery this is,
Someone has to be writing those.

I still have the attic to check,
I lower the stairs and I climb;
I look around and I’m amazed,
A poet in the attic I find!

Then all at once he disappears,
Was it my imagination?
No, it was God checking on me,
Helping His humble creation.

I say, “Thank You Lord, for the words,
But why do You give them to me?
I am surely not worthy of,
This gift that is granted by Thee.”

Then I drop to my knees to pray,
Still thinking that I’m not worthy;
He says, “My child get on your feet,
You’re simply doing your duty.”

© Copyright 2009 Paul D. Berube
All rights reserved