WHY?

Why won't the song of the little bird
High in my maple tree
Bring me a word to give to the world
As he sings his song for me?

Why must it be on a rainy day
With a million things to be done,
I have to stop and write about
The beautiful setting sun?

Why must it be when the day is new
And the world is bright to behold,
A song springs forth of a night long ago
And a shadow pattern bold.

Why is it then on a cold winter day,
When all of my birds have gone
The words trip over themselves in my heart
To tell of their beautiful song.

All of these things are a mystery strange
Perhaps, contrast holds the key,
Regardless of that if my heart is to speak
I must write when it's given to me.