“Excuse me.” The young boy said to the poet, “If you don’t mind me asking…where do you find your words?”
The old poet smiled at the young boy…”Sometimes…” she said, “they’re in the voices of the birds.”
“Sometimes they’re with my friends and family…sometimes on strangers in a crowd…sometimes they rise up with the morning sun…sometimes they’re drifting on a cloud.”
“Sometimes they’re on a ladybug, a butterfly…or a bee…sometimes they’re floating on the breeze…sometimes they’re high up in a tree.”
“Sometimes they fall with the leaves in Autumn…sometimes with the Spring flowers they seem to grow…Sometimes they’re stretched out on a sandy beach…sometimes they’re playing in the snow.”
“Sometimes they’re on the wings of love…Sometimes on the shoulders of pleasure or pain…sometimes they’re left behind by some animal…sometimes they fall from the sky with the rain.”
“Sometimes they crawl out of the forest…sometimes out of the darkness…they emerge…sometimes they run so fast I have trouble keeping up…as out of the ocean waves…they surge.”
“You ask where I find my words.” She said smiling at the young boy, “I hope by now you see…I do not find the words I write…they find their way to me.”
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