Where Poetry Hides

In the warmth of the morning sun,
Beneath the wheeping willow trees
There lies a tiny secret place
Where poetry hides from me.

In the joyous laughter of my siblings,
In the crimson roses of my garden,
Under the seashells of Australia's coast,
Yes, poetry does hide in them.

In my kittens as they strech to reach the sun.
The the worn fading photo of my family
In the sapphire heart of the Atlantic Ocean,
Hidden in the cedar chest of my mother's memories

On England's glistening promenade,
In my notebooks where the stories live and breathe,
In the cemetary where my father is a mere memory
In my tears for a baby sister, I shall never meet.

In my piano, where words blend into music
And ever-so beautiful melodies,
In my every hope and agonizing dreams,
Here does poetry hide from me.