In the middle of the night
When
I can’t get back to sleep,
I
gaze out at fields of words
Just
to see what I can reap.
They
are swaying in the wind
In
the moonlight so sublime,
Waiting
calmly to be gathered,
Sorted
out and set to rhyme.
I
write limericks, cinquains
Or
plain couplets from the crop
And
I glean and thresh and winnow
‘Til
exhaustion makes me stop.
Then
I drift off back to dreams.
When
I wake I do not know
Where
my harvest’s gone; a wisp
Of
rhyme is all I have to show.
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