Her creativity,
this evening’s music muse,
wafts like a late autumn breeze
out her door,
down the hallway,
to my ears.
Peace.
My oldest creation,
son,
and his creation,
my granddaughter,
gaze,
smiling,
from my screensaver.
Joy.
Yet I,
creative meistro
sitting on a hickory’d hill,
fall’s colored leaves
glowing in the sunset;
bright moon and stars
gleaming in the dark
rural’d night,
haven’t written
for daze.
Weeks.
Blank.
Work,
government linguistics,
leaky doors,
amityville horror phermone’d bugs,
busted lights,
stalled furnaces,
all beyond the grasp
of my repair.
Guilt.
Gardens unharvested;
tall fall grasses
in the front yard
unburned,
failed wildflower experiments
where there once was so much
promise.
Melancholy.
All around me,
there is paper
and hundreds of shades
of different hues,
muse,
notes,
thousands of words
i could use.
Yet none come.
Funk.
What to do.
What to do?
Do.
Perhaps
creativity
will drop
like dew
when I do.
And I’ll rinse my face
and cleanse my soul
and refresh my heart
and free my mind.
It’s worth a try.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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