at 10:00 a.m. in a Saturday Morning Poetry Workshop

I am not inspired to write a sonnet
without a feeling, thought, or prayer in mind.
Though words buzz 'round within my striving bonnet,
I feel I'm walking down a path, quite blind.

Writing on command is not my meat.
I'll rouse myself to greater effort soon,
Some distant hour, or fabulous blue moon.
My Muse is lazy; I admit defeat.

Tomorrow, in the shade, with insects humming;
Tomorrow, in the sun, behind closed eyes;
Next week, when life again is loudly drumming,
Perhaps I'll find my Muse again is wise.

But now, this moment, sonnets are too much.
Let me write free verse, ballads, or some such!

Ursula T. Gibson, 7-30-94.

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