I watched the snow
when winter fell,
admiring its patterns.
I wrote a line, a verse, then built
a poem.
And as the thawing earth
grew soft, I marked
a final word,
capped the thought,
and closed the page
on snow.
I saw the first of violets'
bloom; I captured spring's first breath.
Upon a clean, white sheet
I caught the scene.
I painted with black ink
until the summer sun
turned on,
then spilled a final line
to start again.
I have written through
the seasons– purple
flowers, falling
leaves–
inspired by an ever-changing
view.
Yet in each closing stanza
every first, in all
my lines,
you're woven,
threading all that's old
and new.
You are the pulse,
beneath the ground, the spark
that stirs the phrase–
The melody that moves me
every time.
All I have known
of beauty, blazes brighter
by your side,
And ripples through
my body to
the page.
You are the sun– you rise
and fall with rain; you shift
like wind–
the one and only
poem
that never ends.
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