As Summer Dawns

I had never been much of a poet
Neither could I call myself a writer 
To weave webs of metaphors, 
And paint canvases of symbols,
It happened never.
To arrange my thoughts in the same handful of alphabets
To articulate my feelings with a pen and paper 
And to produce words that make one feel something
It was a road far too long to tread upon for me. 
But that wasn’t all
The technicalities of it could still be cured
And this void would have still been small
If a muse was my rope out.
But oh! The dull winter mornings.
The recurring grays and blacks and whites 
The piercing pain of chilly days
And the sights of a mourning nature;
Cut my rope in half.
And then it was time to wait,
But if this wait was fruitful or not, no one could tell.
And as I waited,
The stars they came out of their abode, 
And went back to them again 
And the sun it travelled the world and back 
And the moon was born and gone and born once again
And finally, my rope pulled me out.
The dull mornings were now long gone
The world a palette of all and every color I could conjure
The gentle breeze cooling down all, young or old
And the thriving plants and trees and flowers and streams,
My dear summer, how you make me a poet and writer all in one.