My inspiration leaps from the sprightly green of new trees,

and nestles among the boughs of ancient live oaks,

and flits between their broad dark leaves,

painting the ground with illuminant strokes, and yawns into the dark dirt

My inspiration runs among long grass in a field

and bends the fibers to its will

and leans to the river for a drink from its swill

and floats from illegal blooms.

My inspiration flashes behind my window at night

and shoots silver daggers sharply in the tough earth

and dark gray thunder grumbles and stumbles in mirth

and floats dead brown leaves away.

My inspiration whistles into my ears

and tugs at my hair

and deposits a leaf at my doorstep with care

and sits very still, waiting.