The dancers graceful motions,
Her hair pulled back tight,
The smooth rotations of her feet,
And the breath takingly beautiful sight.

The flower blooming open,
To the newly born spring,
I think of it as a miracle,
This small and colorful thing.

The birds flying through the clear windy skies,
Their wings flapping to the beat,
They soar and fly through the day and night,
Until finally they land on their feet.

The powerful sound of the rumbling ocean,
The white foam coming up at my toes,
The waves crash down, moving anything in their way,
What creatures are in it, who knows?

The choirs voices as one,
The melody and harmony fitting perfectly together,
It can stop any voice, it can stop a moving train,
As stiff as a board, but light as a feather.

The trees swaying tediously in the wind,
The leaves swirling and falling to the ground,
They all come together,
Dancing, prancing, twirling around.

The cry of a murder,
An innocent person losing their life,
Poetry can be sweet,
But it cuts like a knife.