The Poem That Never Ends

I watched the snow when winter fell, admiring its patterns. I wrote a line, a verse, then built a poem. And as the thawing earth grew soft, I marked a final word, capped the thought, and closed the page on snow. I saw the first of violets' bloom; I captured spring's first breath. Upon a clean, white sheet I caught the scene. I painted with black ink until the summer sun turned on, then spilled a final line to start again. I have written through the seasons– purple flowers, falling leaves– inspired by an ever-changing view. Yet in each closing stanza every first, in all my lines, you're woven, threading all that's old and new. You are the pulse, beneath the ground, the spark that stirs the phrase– The melody that moves me every time. All I have known of beauty, blazes brighter by your side, And ripples through my body to the page. You are the sun– you rise and fall with rain; you shift like wind– the one and only poem that never ends.