Poetry comes at the end of the day
When the lights are turned low
And the sun goes away
A poet writes best in the mid-afternoon
With birds in the trees
and mud on the boots
A poet rises in the morning
Even if it might be storming
Oh we write in the rain, if it be pouring
A poet thinks in the evenings
Because we write better when dreaming
And because sometimes
it's better than sleeping
A poet cherishes every part of their day
Beacause each one is never the same.