Most mornings, something nudges me from bed
An hour or two before the light of dawn,
And then, as if by some allurement drawn,
Down to my writing chair I’m gently led.
As if from some subconscious source I’m fed
A pregnant word or phrase that serves to spawn
A couplet or a stanza—then it’s gone,
And what came easily 's now work instead.
But once momentum builds, I’m on my way
And, like a kid first learning how to bike,
I grow more confident as I proceed
Keeping my balance, trying not to stray—
At last, I’m sure the proper word will strike,
And what was fancy will turn fact indeed.