Into the middle of the wood
I marched with pen and pride in hand.
There at the cliff I stopped and stood
To from that sight a dream demand.
The butterflies tripped on the breeze
Around the fresh new coat of green
The spring had splattered on the trees
And finished with a sunlit sheen.
I watched the heat rise off the ground.
I waited on the waterfall.
I wandered on without a sound,
And I wrote nothing there at all.