Poetry's like the wind you know,
Words fly by they come they go.
You rush to put your thoughts to pen,
For they may not return again.
The best are caught when emotions are high,
Snatching them up as they go by.
Now a calm arrives... You scratch your head,
The words are gone, your poem is dead.
Then a stirring starts and before you know,
You are writing as fast as your pen can go.
Unannounced a tempest may sweep you away
As a poem knows neither night nor day.
Don't be afraid to open your heart,
For that is the place a poem starts.
One day in the attic cold and gray,
They will find the poems that you tucked away.
And just like the wind, they will never die,
For you captured the heart as the words flew by.
Ruby Palmer ~June 1999