There’s a hidden valley just over yonder

where the scribblers and scribes often wander

with pen and paper weighing down their packs.

They are anxious to write both fiction and facts.

 

The valley is filled with fountains flowing with verbs,

old orchards of adjectives, and, have you heard,

there’s chattering conjunctions hiding in tall chestnut trees,

while indigenous interjections snap at the buzzing bees.

 

Placid prepositions rest without making a sound.

Petulant pronouns roam around the grounds.

Antsy articles meander searching for crumbs,

as weathered writers scrawl witty phrases, one by one.

 

This valley of wonderment created by God

who whispered, then waving, gave a slight nod

releasing rushing rivers and a mountainous range.

Then, miraculously, He brought forth seasons of change.

 

Ask any proud poet to show you the way.

You’ll be quietly invited and later asked to stay.

Gladly deciphering verses of dribble and drool,

you’ll soon be writing in this valley, well-schooled.