What to write now?

If nature be my thing,

then.

I could have written on Summer's Day.

or even a Winter's cold.

And wet, wet clay,

drying in the ground.

Or the hot sun,

the center of all life,

as it never leaves,

until its job is done.

For i could have written,

on a clouded day.

The shadow it makes,

or the pouring rain.

All these choices come to me,

piled high as a mountains peak.

Oh come down, mountain goat,

for all to see,

as your white coat of fur glistening from snow,

almost as if I have unlocked to mine,

a shiny key to poetry of life.