With eyes closed to the outside world,
far from the bustling cities;
A child sits beneath the canopy of leaves
fingers sprawled out in the grass,
listening to the sounds of nature.
The child, statue-like, held silent and strong,
sat motionless for over an hour.
And when motion finally occurred
it was a slow and stately rise,
a reach into the pocket.
The child brought out a small notebook,
and scrawled in it for a few minutes,
before returning seated, cross-legged.
Statue-like, silent, strong,
the child sat again for a long while.
As the sun went down, the child stood up
and walked the mile back home.
Inside, taking out the notebook,
sat down at a writing desk
facing out the window.
And for a few minutes, carefully,
the child copied what she had written:
“I’m a child of nature, of written words.
A child that knows no truths.
I’m a child of joy and happiness
One who asks for nothing but a use.
I wait patiently for the inspiration,
for the flood of thoughts to come.
For poetry is not an act at all,
but a knowledge of the constant hum.
I am a child of wilderness, of harmony.
A child that listens to the Earth
I write because I’m asked to
by the world that speaks in murmurs
that I then claim as my own.”