Poetry-Thing Thursday: Their Master the Pen

What of the flowers?
The birds and the bees?
They’re in the wind,
blown to the breeze.

And the desert and sun?
The rains and the sea?
All long behind us,
victims of thee.

How, you might ask.
I can’t quite be sure,
but I know one thing,
they’re long past mature.

They’re not quite expired
but ready to retire,
while new words and images
wait for their sire.

Their master the pen,
will mold them in time,
ink them into being,
with portents and rhyme.

But until then you’ll,
just have to wait,
save your words,
for all to appreciate.

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