Before the break of dawn I come to sit
in quiet darkness, sipping herbal tea,
mulling in my mind what might be fit
to versify, as notions visit me.
My writing pad sits on my lap, my pen
in my right hand gets chewed and twirled,
waiting for a line to form, and then
transcribes the thought revealed, a scroll unfurled.
A low-watt light illuminates my hand
and writing board while slowly the page fills
with what may seem premeditated, planned,
as if we poets exercised our wills
to write, when just the opposite is true:
we merely sit and let the Muse come through.