Inspiration has to be courted, 

But, like a person infatuated,

I lack patience.

 

I am easily frustrated

By the lack of her favor, but

 

I will go out to meet her, still,

As I always do.

 

We meet most often

In a meadow. At least, that is where I wait.

 

It is a field of print, something endlessly familiar

In the flowers’ scent. I walk amongst petals,

barefoot like my Papa taught me, until the soles of my feet

Are black with ink.

 

There are stories, in 

every single bloom,

From which seeds spill out and 

New tales sprout in a cycle 

Both beautiful and strange.

 

I walk 

Until I reach the edge of a pond,

A calm pool in which the

Reflection of humanity can be seen.

The sights of it have mentored me

 

(I believe in words more than anything).

 

Here she embraces me without greeting.

 

A sense of contentment smoothes my hair

Oh darling, she speaks, why do you long

To make this untamed place home?

 

“It’s a sturdy foundation,” I answer, “with

Dreams of mine tucked into the soil…” All

The means to cultivate wild words of my own.

 

The meadow waits

for me.

 

As I study the sight, it studies me back.

A question rings in my ears.

 

I just want to delight others

The way 

I have been

Delighted.

 

But is that enough?

 

I sit up, returned to my bedroom

With its plain walls and

Shelves laden with too many books.

 

Inspiration only flirts with me

Regardless,

I pick up a pen

And I write 

and write

and write.