Ars Poetica

Poets rise above waters smashing;
thoughts that wave in constant thrashing.
Trees bow to your sweet adieu,
speaking in rustles of only You.
Waters on lakes ripple in time,
to maybe force a poetic rhyme.
Mountains waver a twinkled thought
that neither mind or soul has bought.
Oh Bards of old and of new,
God can Only give Words to you.

This poem was a finalist in the December 2008 poetry contest