Still We Write

Who can describe

In mere mortal words

The beauties of nature

The songs of the birds

We as the poets

Try with our pen

To describe all of nature

The hill and the glen

Ages have passed

And still we do fail

To put down on paper

The sound of the hail

Books have been written

Filled with lines upon lines

But we still haven't captured

The streams nor the vines

Thousands of words

Through languages spanned

And we fail so miserably

To picture the land

The simplest petal

Can out do the best

Nature blooms

While with words we wrest

Yet still we write

It is our fate.

To put down in ink

What we can't relate.