There’s a place were poems live
a secret place well hidden
away from the madness
away from the strangers
where life, with all it’s twists and turns, flourishes and grows.
The place where poems grow
is a never ending pasture
where little sprouts are watered and pruned
waiting to be nurtured waiting
to be harvested by the author.
If I could, I’d spend more time in that pasture
I would feel the creative winds kiss my cheeks
and smell the air left behind from inspiring rains
I would listen to the seasons and taste the warmth of words upon my tongue.
I visit there sometimes
I twirl and dance and run and play
And when I’m tired
I lay on the green and stretch my arms toward the sky
I twirl the clouds around my fingertips
and smile at their tickled laughter
All in that secret place
where poems live.