Sitting beneath this willow
My chosen place of retreat,
My mind was open--ready to create.
But somehow when I long for a gift
It is most unwilling to be given
And soon I must be content
With rustling wind and a pink hair ribbon.
There is a time for every purpose--
This is a good and right decree,
But when I am wanting something I cannot see,
It most often remains elusive.
And as I was despairing of ever gaining a prize,
Inspiration sweet being withheld from my eyes,
I looked back up my page and found--not empty words,
But the very thing coveted--gold.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
The pangs or perhaps joys, of a petty poet
Posted by Rebekah at 4:50 PM