This musing and enthusing in the morn
Is how, most days, another poem is born
While I am sitting in the semi-dark
Dreaming up rhymes to hit the end-line mark
And conjuring from my semi-conscious mind
Some way to make such happenstance designed
And even seem intended from the start,
Although I know I haven’t been that smart.
But truly it’s a mystery to me
How anything coherent comes to be
Emerging from a mind that’s nebulous
And seems spontaneous not sedulous,
For sprezzatura is my writing’s aim,
To make my mental labors seem a game.