I remember when poetry came so easy.

A shaft of light tapping my shoulder.

Creases laying lines on my face after a nap.

Another age spot showing up like a ring on a tree.

The Muse used to be after me.

Poetry would help me catch my breath.

Water pooled around my imagination,

Whetting appetites and desire.

Now I have to ask to be free.

The Muse used to be after me.

It’s easier now to write about poetry

Rather than unravel words to a poem.

You know, those wending subtle slants

Infusing linear thought like soil over seed.

The Muse used to be after me.

Well, I’m asking now for you to say

“Look at how the petals play.

They hold hands around the yellow pill.

A daisy is a daisy is a daisy still.”

Now I say to the Muse, “After you.”