While hoping for new inspiration,
I turn to the velvet black sky,
To the specks of white light
Reaching down through the night,
Til they fade into sunrise and die.
I look to the moon and her shadows,
She’s sure to inspire clear thought,
In her fair face, so pale,
I find nothing, and fail.
Not a whisper nor wink have I caught.
With a sigh, I return to my notebook,
I pick up my recalcitrant pen,
To my task I return,
I have candles to burn,
But daydreams refresh now and then.
Can the whispers of autumn enliven?
Can the crash of the ocean inspire?
Can the rustle of leaves
In the cool evening breeze,
Sing a song that will set me afire?
All these things make a comfortable backdrop
For the words I consider this night,
But I know in my heart:
When fecundity starts…
Pen in hand, like a rapier, I’ll write.
© Nancy Bond