I try to catch the beauty in a rose,
or in the in whisp’ring wings of butterflies.
A poet, just a simple man who tries
to find the splendor that God will unclose
each day again, in little unspoilt things,
like sunlit clouds, dressed in a pure carmine
a flock of geese, high up in southbound line,
the rustling song an autumn forest sings.
There’s poetry in all that meets the eye
but seldom so rejoycing, I must say
as in that moment this last Saturday
when two girls on a bike just passed me by.
For never in one image I did find
Such beauty, joy and lust for life combined
