Tribute to Wordsworth.

The rustling of branches is still in mind
when shadows move along the barren ground,
leaves falling effortlessly, drifting, drifting...
A gift it would be to hold in my hands
what he walked with day after day, thinking.
Stories I would tell with the coo of owls,
speaking to depths unexplored in my soul;
how lucky he was to feel, see, breathe it.
What I would give to be in place like such,
an entity, filled with life of creatures
where the chirping of birds outweighs troubles
and thoughts of subliminal beauty flow freely...
An envious vice constricts thoughts of words,
jealous of his gift to escape the world
if but for a still moment, words pouring
like rain on tin, a flow uninterrupted.
I'd give my life to put pen to paper
and write my thoughts to share with precious few.
How to better myself? Enlighten me.