MUSE ABUSE

    It’s later than I usually sit to write,
    Which is before the vestiges of night
    Have scurried off just as the coming dawn
    Brings color back into the charcoal lawn.

    Now winds waft in the whistling of a train
    And then the roar of a descending plane,
    Which wakes the drowsing birds to chirp and peep
    And neighbor dogs to bark—the end of sleep.

    Soon, all the world will bustle once again
    While peaceful Contemplation says “Amen”;
    The Muse of verse will blithely bid adieu
    To inner sights when outer come to view.

         Reverie is the source of poetry,
         At odds with busy day’s activity.

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