Bard & Quill

A story sits,

A writer is sentenced,

Midnight emptiness

It was Summer, the first time I saw her, feet wet in the morning dew,

The air is warm, and heavy.

And for a moment, I saw the world in, her eyes.

It’s the motion i think, That makes the words come. The road stretched out ahead,

There’s mud on my boots, And it smells like rain.

I’ve looked at the sky, A thousand times, Marveling at the creator’s display,

There are certain,

Under my finger and my thumb, the keys rest, snug as a rug, Under my window, a clean grating sound, when the shovel sinks into icy snow,

I walked along the road, As I often do during the day, Now the road is wet, The leaves are piling along the street.

The call of the wild is the voice of a friend, carried on the whisper of wind as it flows, the pine needles of the northern forest, among…

There is no,

I’ve often thought,

I see Autumn through,

Writing is an act,