Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”


Underfoot, the leaves are damp and cold

Which yesterday were dancing with the breeze

In flashing pirouettes of red and gold

Set loose from still abundant canopies.

But now the bare-boned outlines of the trees

Are etched in black across a slate-gray sky.

The wind feels like a prelude to a freeze;

It may bring sleet when next it passes by.

It’s not the first time leaves have had to die:

The wind has sung their funeral dirge before,

But now it seems like every year that cry

Comes sooner and we seem to feel it more;

For every cycle has a single thrust:

What’s born of earth must soon return to dust.

Remember: for more poetry like this, go to and order Stars Through the Clouds! Also look for Inklings of Reality and Reflections from Plato’s Cave, Williams’ newest books from Lantern Hollow Press: Evangelical essays in pursuit of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty.  And look for Williams’ very latest book, Deeper Magic: The Theology behind the Writings of C. S. Lewis, from Square Halo Books!

Donald T. Williams, PhD


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