Poetry: Struggling with words
The sun shone bright in a winter sky
The clouds made way, for once, the lands turned cold and dry
A sweet breeze came calling, the kiss of spring
A baby crow stood by its wooden ledge, a little wind under each wing.
We were back to a bright green, throw in some fresh drops of dew
The garden peripheries screamed out in every thinkable hue
Tiny freckles of long dead snow fought to keep their place
Sunshine would have none of it, she brought respite from the cold and had made her case.
The parchment was crisp, the ink ran deep
The baby crow finally shut his eyes and took his big leap
The quill made its way across its field, rooting her every plant
The writer looked back, chest swollen and then popped, at this ugly slant
It was a perfect day, for every leaf, hoof and bird
why then could I not, bring to paper, a word?
Why was it difficult?
Was it the incorrectly mixed colours? Or the crooked lines?
Was it the uneven curves? Or the uneven surfaces?
Was it hard…
Because the picture to paint was mine?
