My Creative Place

MY CREATIVE PLACE

Once as a child, I sit pondering,

And listened to my mind’s wanderings.

It led me first to one place then another,

Into mountains and valleys with billowy clouds cover.

Like many before me, I climbed the steep grade,

Slipping and sliding until I reached the shade.

At that moment once settled, I turned to look,

To pen a tale of nature’s majesty, in my book.

Scribbles at first were all that I mustered to create,

Jotting first one letter then another as a keepsake,

Knowing full well that no one else would care,

Whether it painted a picture or had a story to share.

In my secret place high above all,

I sit under a tree atop a mountain so tall.

Taking in hand my pen filled with ink,

Memories to share demanded I dare not blink.

Alas, the caress of my friend could not linger,

And succumbed to night’s approaching dark fingers.

I’d spent the day writing in my book,

Atop a mountain with its majestic look.

Gone now are those times of childhood bliss,

West Virginia mountains and its people I miss.

But contrary to those who would offer a rebuke,

That place, those scenes, those memories are not just a fluke.

For within me lives each moment I shared,

Of that place, those people for whom I still care.

Family and friends whether acquaintances or kin,

Came alive with each reading and cause me to grin.

Childhood meanderings left upon my book’s pages,

Are meant for encouragement or inspiration or whatever it takes.

There isn’t much left of that sitting space,

Not much left on the “hill”, my creative place.

By: Dan R. Fowler

for Astrid