Every writer’s mind
Has a village
Where one will find
A certain spillage
Of quirky characters.

There’s the bright boomer
Who sings and smiles
And then the gloomy doomer
Who stinges and riles
On the village square.

There’s the pensive dreamer
On the bridge reflecting
As the monotonous tasker
Goes about trudging-begruding
Past an uncaring soul.

The curious inquirer
Sits upon the branches of a tree
As the stoic planner
Plots where to place the lee
For the winter coming.

At last the child
Who writes this poem
Who sees the ruckus and antic-wild
Village he calls his home
He who grows through them.