Poetry

Poetry is not a word
Or a line or a rhyme
It is a thought, a passion stirred
With whisper of finger-tips
And lips,
Saying nothing in particular
And everything
At the same time
Poetry is murmured by breezes
And crashing of the sea
Poetry is a caged thought set free
In nothing more than the hint of a smile
Or the glimmer of regret
Shining in your eye
Over reaching an age of knowing
Too much, and yet
Nothing at all
Poetry weeps in the rain as it falls
And seeps through the darkness
Like a somber cloak
Yet my heart breaks loose
By a thought you spoke
With nothing more
Than the wisp of a sigh
In your glance
As you passed by…

J~