A poem by Charles Nunnelly, friend of the forum.



EXPERIENCE

You’re not a poet til you write the wind

Instead of the reed with its delicate bend,

You’re not a poet til you write the call

Of a songbird in the color of fall.


You’re not a poet til you write the peach

As it hangs just beyond your outstretched reach,

You’re not a poet til you write the smell

Of last years rose as it silently fell


You're not a poet til your mother dies

And you write her last soft-murmured sighs

You’re not a poet til the hand of time

Has written your last forgotten rhyme.

__________________
InterfaithForums.com-Where your ideas and beliefs count.

This is good!

I love this poem...