In the heart of the woods where the wild thyme grows,
Where the hush of the dusk through the pine needles flows,
There lives a soft creature with ink on his paw,
Who scribbles the silence in awe upon awe.
He doesn’t much speak, but he listens so well —
To the drip of the rain and the hush of a shell.
He writes on old leaves with a bark-chewed quill,
And the stillness around him grows softer still.
He hums to the foxglove, he sings to the stream,
He murmurs a stanza right into a dream.
No stage, no applause, no bright city light —
Just a cave full of verses and firefly night.
And though no one sees him, and few even care,
The world feels more whole with the Poetry Bear.
For he gathers the quiet, the kind, and the true —
And turns it to poems for me and for you.