Inspiration

The writer sat there, at the table,
Late one Winter’s night
Looking about him, scratching his head,
But no idea was in sight.
He fidgeted with his fingers.
He twisted in his chair.
No words or thoughts would come to him
As he sat and twirled his hair.
Despite the writer’s restlessness
And the sleepiness he fought,
He could not fathom what to say,
The poetry that he sought.
He scribbled a few words here.
A line he added there.
He could not seem to conjure much
But he suddenly did not care.
For it had just occurred to him
That what he wrote was fine.
Inspiration comes to some of us
One line at a time.

Dec. 21, 1998