A Poet Speaks

A poet speaks and magic words come swiftly,
The air is filled with sweetly rythmic sound;
His every thought is soon expressed completely,
His words, like leaves, come fluttering to the ground.

They say he has a special gift for seeing
All lovely things, however guised they be;
They say he has a special gift for feeling
Each throb of life in earth and sky and sea.

But I—I cannot rhapsodize on clouds at sunset,
Or liltingly describe a bird's sweet song.
I see the clouds and feel the bird's heart bursting,
Yet words come chokingly and somehow—wrong.

—D.O.