Writing Poetry; a Poem About the Process
Lone she walks
the midnight hill
gathering silver slivers of moonbeams,
crystal nightbird notes
and touchpoints of stars.
Childlike she steps
among the watered stones
choosing the smoothest, rarest,
nesting them with care between the stars.
Under the moonstruck trees,
she collects leaves,
and the footprints of wee beasts.
Carefully, she sorts these gleanings of the night,
arranges them on paper,
and fancies herself a poet.
© 2015 Liz Elias