writing

I cried unto the Lord,

          And the rain answered in gentle thumps on the deck.

I begged the gods to come to my aid,

          And clouds blew across the moon.

I sat and listened to the breeze,

          The blank pages called.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

I'm wondering--did the blank pages call as a result of your beseeching of God's help? Whatever the reason, it is indeed a mystery. Personally, I can never make myself write, but must wait until planets align, tea leaves pile up in a certain way, or I see a three-legged dog cross the road. It's a very nice poem, Doug, and displays well this ghost we call "Muse).