The Poet

She smiles,

when she sits down,

to write.

As a poem

is a collection of perfect moments,

of love, joy, and passion.

With the chair in the right place,

and the desk freshly cleaned.

She tucks her hair,

behind her ear,

with her pen pressed against her lips,

as she waits for the words,

to come.

The sun lights the room.

the wind ruffles her hair,

as she’s lost in thought,

hand gently tapping,

on the desk,

Her pen now swirling,

on the page,

letting the random twirls,

and swishes of ink,

turn themselves to letters.

Waiting,

and waiting,

for those perfect moments,

to show themselves.