This Is Where I Write

I sit on a mountain, where the air is fresh.

I lay at a river, where the water does shine.

I stand in a forest, where the dew is heavy.

This is where I write.

There are no great views from this mountain.

No great expanse across this river.

No deep depths within this forest.

But this is where I write.

For I am not on a mountain,

nor by a river,

nor in a forest.

I never left my room.

My mountain is a pile of clothes.

My river is a cup of tea.

My forest is a mess of papers.

And this is where I write.

Here great mountains do emerge.

Here tranquil streams begin to pulse.

Here thick forests do overrun.

This is where I write.