Or a Snowy Morning

Behind the factory is a spot where
I often go for a breath of air
catching a break from the craziness
perhaps displaying my laziness
where sometimes over the compressor’s hum
the song of a bird from the wood comes
and morning sun on the grass and trees
has a way of inspiring me.

Where recently, trying to make yellow snow
(though the white stuff went as fast as I’d go)
the snowfall’s hushed beauty made me believe
I knew why Frost stopped on that fateful eve
when God gave him one set of immortal rhymes
inspiration comes at peculiar times.
Sometimes good and true, sometimes farfetched,
to which I fear I can attest.

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