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A Poetry Garden

I sit outside and nature invades my thoughts,
Like the contents in a box of a game of droughts,
The sounds, the smells  feelings and sights,
Work my imagination inside out.

A gardner digs and plants; then the roots grow,
Poems come together in my head and build up slow,
The roots are planted then the flower buds,
My poems end up sometimes in published books.

The world around me pours its magic in my ears,
Like a professional gardner who has been planting for years,
It's echoing power pounds around my brain,
I build a poem to express my delight or pain.

A fluttering butterfly or bird,
Can get me putting together words,
It doesn't take much I don't need a lot,
To make the most of this talent that I've got!

Was feelin random lol sorry!

Vixi Wroe, 17 (c)

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