Sometimes I lay awake and wonder,
Why poems are often written about lightning and thunder.
And the moon, and stars, and things of the night,
So often seem to be in the poems we write.
But once I was troubled, cursed to write only of lost love,
Now I cherish those poems of stars, and the moon up above.
For when at last I escaped the shadow of the past,
I could once more write freely of things that do last.
Things like trees, forests, mountains, and more,
More of the things my spirit adores.
And ‘tis not say I won’t write of love ever again,
The day I feel its warm touch, I’ll know to begin.
For now though I do hope, you’ll come along on this trek.
To read the things I write freely, love no longer my wreck.