Ars Poetica

March 2, 2011
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It is the sparkles on crisp grass in the morning: dew drops,
Brilliantly colored flowers blossoming,
The gleaming sun reflecting off a calm lake,
Wind rustling through a lush green forest,
Accompanied by the lovely sound of birds chirping.

It is mournful rain on a cloudy, dark day,
The colorless burden of a weary winter,
A menacing storm at sea, ominous waves,
Black charred, brittle remains of a merciless fire,
And the terrifying silence that results.

At times admirable, at other times horrifying,
Touching, yet unpredictable, a poem is nature.

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