Writing hides in the boxes of old,
Worn, moth eaten clothes, full of
Memories in the back of your closet.
Writing hides in the unconditional
Love that a puppy gives while
Curled up on your lap.
Writing hides on the wet roads,
In the streaking rain, and in the
Immeasurable amount of control it takes
Not to sit back and give in
To the soft sound of rain
Pattering on the roof.
Writing hides in the wilderness,
In the soft breeze blowing
Through a field, rustling grass,
And gently billowing between wildflowers.
Writing hides where you least
Expect it, lurking in a yellowing book,
Sitting on the tip of your pen.
Tyler Howat
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/writing-hides/
