In the quiet dawn, where whispers weave,
Poets find their muse among the leaves.
Each rustling sound, a verse unspoken,
Natureâs poetry, softly broken.
Through forests deep, and valleys wide,
They capture worlds where dreams reside.
With every stroke, a tale is spun,
Of morning dew and setting sun.
The rivers sing, the mountains stand,
As poets sketch with steady hand.
The boundless sky, a canvas blue,
Where words alight like morning dew.
In every breeze, a secret told,
By poets young and poets old.
For nature speaks in silent ways,
And poets echo through the days.