But a Listener, Dear

I write a poem, I write a song
They flow in so easily
I hear my mind so sweetly ask
"Just what's the point of these?"

I let the thought go pondering
My mind's answers are trite
"Sharing?" "Changing?" "Squandering?"
"This is for who's delight?"

I guess it doesn't matter much
I'll let the rhyming be
And just take pleasure in the fact
that they arrive to me

Whose whisper tickles this writer's ear,
with words so sweet and small?
And who's my mind to compare these words
to anything at all?

So here they are, and so they live
They must fall as they may
For I am but a listener, dear
Gently swinging in the sway

June 15, 2024