The dawn is growing lighter as I sit
Waiting for the Spirit to enthuse
My torpid mind with something meet and fit
For verse—my invocation to the Muse.
Soon syllables and sounds begin to flow,
A line of thought takes shape across the page,
Then ending with a resonance I know
Must echo down below at the next stage.
Sometimes, as now, I simply marvel at
The mystery of this process I invoke
That turns my mind into an acrobat
Or a magician pulling from his cloak
Exactly the right word to end a line
That makes you think I followed a design.