There are poems hidden in the limbs of the willow
Lines of rhyme flow from the music of the wren
Sonnets sit like angels atop clouds resting on hillsides
Waiting to instill those with pen and ink to script lyrics to enlighten
Triolets grow among pink, red and yellow petals of coneflowers
Poetry is the breath of our life, the sustenance of the soul
Wars recalled in verse, memories intended to calm, release the pain
Songs of poetry sing messages cascading from the heart
When gods, or monsters, or disease destroy the planet
The last words, lines forming an elegy, will drift from the debris
This poem is in need of a better title and was inspired by someone writing on Hello Poetry, whom I can't recall, that wondered if she would still be inspirited to write now that she was no longer heartbroken.
