To find the beauty in simple things,
the love in another’s eyes
or hear the music in wind and stream.
That is the magic in living.
Why did you not believe me?
You heard me say I loved you.
Though I turned away to book and pen,
I could still hear you.
There were stars that night.
We both saw them, some falling,
but our eyes were on the other’s.
What matter the stars far away.
We mourn the devastation wrought that day,
Three thousand lives, two great tall buildings.
We kill a hundred times more of our own
with our guns or with our cars,
but that day excuses fighting endless wars.
Why do I write? Because sometimes,
sometimes, a phrase or thought comes
that is all mine and my heart swells.
Or my words caused another to laugh, cry or think.