Each morning when I call upon my Muse
To ask if she will bless me and enthuse
My consciousness with something new to write
That’s both insightful and will bring delight,
I usually find the goodness of her grace
And set off on my poem’s iambic pace
Intent to fill a sonnet’s fourteen lines
With grace and seeming ease in these confines.
The trick is to appear spontaneous
And effortless right to its terminus,
Each line just like a leaf upon a tree
Emerging in its form spontaneously
And yet clear evidence that it’s designed
By a mysterious creative mind.