Poetry is everywhere;
it’s in the air we breathe.
It lies within our very hearts
and the rhythm of their beats.

It floats above the mountaintops,
in clouds that move and mingle;
it stirs inside the very earth,
in each shift, and shape, and wrinkle.

It speaks softly in the babbling brook
and flows inside the creek;
it calls loud and clear, from passing birds
as it echoes from their beaks.

It dances 'round the tall oak trees,
when they wave, and sway, and whisper.
The poetry lies everywhere,
exposed to me, the listener.