Living Poetry

I never noticed how the moon slips
off of sidewalks, or how it melts
into a prism on the surface of the lake,
dripping down in steady streams,
glimmering for all or none to see.

I never heard how the brook babbled
unending streams of nonsense that
you translated into effective words,
a living language all our own, singing
for us to jump in and and follow.

I never wondered why the fire sparks
or the lightening bugs play tag
with the embers, reflecting in your eyes,
matching the glowing shades between
yellow and red, the stars and planets.

I never understood how this living poetry
could exist in the world, but not in mine,
until I was given new eyes, new ears,
a new mind to marvel, taste and see;
never, until now, and still so much more.

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