My poetry, like my constant rambling mind,
seeks expression..
Flitting from one word to another,
always searching for that perfect one..
Like a butterfly uneasily settling on
a bright flower and finding it unworthy,
moves on to another in hopes of a
better meal..
So my mind, sometimes calm, sometimes
furiously busy, looks to my hands
to place my words in the correct order,
hoping to make sense and beauty
out of them..
For, like the artist, the poet has her words,
which are her paint,
to make wonderful creations..