Poetry

It is a present 

Poeter gives it to himself

Find one in a dusty book

Nestled on his shelf

Find one in a face

Of a person poetry don't know

Feel one on a windy day

Here it blows

See it in a mouse

Watch it run

Smell a breakfast

When morning offers sun

Poeter may think it

Is always made of words

But it can be sweet

A voice like nightingale birds

It can be secrets

Or shout upon the air 

It is a present

Hiding everywhere

Creation by Poeter memory

That is Poetry.