The day is bright

The day is bright, sunny and perfect,

the squirrels scurry and the cuckoos sing 

as I sit beneath a tree to write with effect,

a perfect poem eternal and beautiful can I bring;

but how with imperfect hands and mind,

what magical prayer can I summon, 

what streets to loiter and what words to find

to grasp a mysterious beauty uncommon;

but it has been done by a few masters,

did their brain and hands move in cohesion, 

were they perfect that their mind fosters

beauty at whim without needing a revision;

Oh, only if it were thus, they too were mortals

and would have had to toil for beauty’s morsels.

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