What is a poem anyway? Is it the blood from your veins as it spills on to your page? Is it the dance of your heart as your pen glides gracefully away? Is it the ache felt deep inside that we spend all our lives trying to describe?
Today the birds are a little quieter I hear only one lonely quiet chirp Where just a few short weeks ago there was a loud chorus. Gone now are the speedways between our hummingbird feeder and our neighbors. The breeze is much too cool to sit for long without a sweater and the leaves now