Mid-December. Insomnia. Dreams don’t come easy.
The clock’s steady meter resounds, -- displeasing.
Lean on the window and listen to the winter’s
Warm breath. Shivering lips mark the window,--
A sudden epiphany.
Naked branches sway to the rhythm, -- freezing!
Thus starts a poem. Thus the Muses control us, teasing
With the wind’s wailing. Thus cold fingers
Become anxious to write.
Thus, seducing the soul, the hour-hand lingers
To move any further tonight.