A drip, a drop, a blot of blood
Colors my page, unleashing flood
Emotions, words (aren't they the same?)
On my paper, they share a name:
Poem.

What see I sitting on her knees? It’s you
A part of nature you are this morning.
A silhouette against the sky in blue.
Atop a cliff, the earth to you doth sing.

I stand in awe of grace so beautiful
From you just sitting still in lone repose.
While standing watching this, I feel a pull
To greet you and give you a fitting rose.

Then suddenly I am beside you now.
For how I came, I can’t begin to guess.
But as you turn and smile, I take a vow:
I will not ever this moment repress.

I could forever now sit here with you,
In fact that is just what I plan to do.

I climbed the mountain, the morning bright
I stopped to breathe, and caught a sight
Filthy ruins, dark and dead
Half yet standing of a homestead
Dust and dirt crumbled down
So still it was, and with no sound.

But as I wandered close to look
I spied a window by a nook
Such a poor, abandoned thing,
Yet as I watched, the sight began to sing.

This was no victim, though hardships seen
Not just a survivor; thriving keen.
It sat as a family lit its world
And endured after their bodies curled.
I peered through it, from within to out
And experienced the furthest thing from a drought.
Window had rested since then in calm and peace
Of the wild, as life began, lived, and ceased.

When I really looked at Window as more than thing
It outlined the landscape in a glorious ring
Forests, hills, flowers, deer, and sun
Came alive through Window, the silent one.