I'd like to find the poetry hill
that's hiding from my sight
observe as poet prodigies  
pour out from heart's delight...

I tend to hear the rhythm
from the ground beneath my feet
the thing which drives my words along
is marching to a beat.

I'd much prefer the heavenly home
the nest or hive or hill
where poets mine the best of what
remains unwritten still...

some buzz around fresh blossoms
gently pollinating poems
while others come from darkness deep
with couplets forming tomes

I wait in joyful silence
as they read their precious lines
which draws the listener into
that which opens up our minds.

And as I lean down closely, seeing  
poems have formed a hill
I'm  bitten by a poetry bug
whose rhymes affect me still.