The act of writing is the hardest thing. Now writing of a child on a swing, The words won't say the things I want to say. Faced with our needs they will not sing. The act of writing is the hardest thing. I rant and rave and my mind I wring, The words drift and go astray, Faced with our needs they will not sing.
Some momentary visions cut and sting.
The act of writing is the hardest thing. The wind plays through the painted weather vane. Far away in open fields herds of cattle graze. More silent than these, the farmer stirs and readies himself to meet the day. The sweet ones will be fragrant.