There are days when pens go dry
and words 'or pages cannot fly.
When synapses are winter-slow,
and sweet-tree juices refuse to flow.
To write like Hughes of eagles and crows,
a Shakespeare-like sonnet or 'en simple prose.
To stir weary souls with fired words writ,
or carve laugh-lines with sharpened wit.
To soar above where angels sing,
or strike love's bell and feel it ring.
But sad it is when I've nothing to say,
knowing I shall not true minds sway. e.c.