MT. RIGA ROAD
If I could draw—
The country lies
A beacon to my pointed pen,
Enticing me to sketch again,
Or paint the colored twilight skies.
If I could play—
I’d harmonize
The babbling brooks in mossy glen
Or sing the whispered words of men
Or wordless songs in misty eyes.
I wish that God had given to me
Expression that real artists show ...
The power to understand and see,
Uplifted by the will to know.
Instead, I write my paltry stint,
Which usually isn’t fit to print.