There’s a place where poems live

a secret space well hidden

a road from nowhere

a road to everywhere

away from madness

away from strangers

where life,

with all it’s twists and turns

flourish and grow

The place where poems grow

a never ending pasture

of tiny sprouts watered

pruned

erupting into color

waiting for the author’s courage

to nurture more

to harvest boldly

I’d gladly spend more time there

to feel creative winds kiss my cheeks

smell the air left behind by inspiring rains

listen to the seasons

and taste the warmth of words

upon my tongue

I visit there sometimes,

my second home

I twirl and dance

run and play

find the words

find the meaning

and write the cadence

of a poem’s identity

And when I’m tired

I lay on the colored verses

stretch my arms toward the sky

twirl the clouds around my fingertips

and smile at their tickled laughter

All in that secret place

where poems live

photo credit

daily post prompt: Identity