Each To Their Own Poem by Elia Michael

A waste of time is what he thought
And that is what he said to me
To sit composing poetry
Is worth a little more than nought

But he does not know the pleasure
I get from writing my verses
It is the one thing that nurses
My mind and soul in such measure

A waste of time is what you think
(Not like looking after rabbits
Or chickens with scratching habits)
To write is wasting precious ink

You have a beautiful retreat
Amid the reddish browny fields
A little haven which so wields
Its charm and cools the summer heat

Oh cousin, friend, do think on this
The joy and calm that you do feel
I too do feel with equal zeal
I sit and write in perfect bliss