On cold and windy, rainy night,
I sat beside the fire’s golden light
with such an intention then to write.

To tell what shadow I had seen
pass by outside my window screen-
supposing I knew what it could mean.

Wet cobblestones in alley glisten-
but would anyone out there listen?
Even one would warrant this mission.

Hearing the tired branches sway,
I wondered then how I was to say
what no prior sentence could portray.

I sat, reaching for all the things
that crying wind of cyclone brings-
but silence! Now the blue-bird sings!

How long I sat in aimless wonder
for that spell which I’d been under,
hearing now just some distant thunder,

but few words would come to me.
My pen would’ve set the world free-
but all that flowed from it was poetry.