On the windowsill
He sat,
Staring at the sky
Writing words
Known only in his head,
Leaning against a reflection
Watching the moon,
Listening to the wind
Drifting through the trees,
Hearing the faint voices
Of people walking
And talking
On a Saturday night
Pride of bovine kind
Wanderer of the mountains
None could best a yak
Far to the east
The waterfall flows
A wellspring of life
As everyone knows
Beneath the cliffs
It washes away strife
Bringing to hearts
A joyous light
Based on the poem "This is just to say" by William Carlos Williams.
I have drunk
the tea
that was on
the counter
and which
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