I’d write of the bird, and how artfully he sings,
I’d write of his flight on a pair of soft feathered wings,
But there’s more to the world than the beautiful things,
The stalking, spindly spider who hangs on a thread,
The humble red ant upon whose cousins you’ve tread.
Of these works of art no poet ever thinks;
Upon seeing these creatures, my poetic heart sinks,
And taking notice of my heartache, Nature, knowing, winks,
For she knows I can write of the monsters she made,
The ugly ones whose cold existence she bade.
Nature lets us recognize all beautiful forms,
Whether in benign sunshine or cacophonous storm,
And it’s a shame that true beauty is so often ignored.