Writing Poems
In the dark hollow of the night,
I trade my sleep for time to write.
Idea clouds form overhead;
in blinks of time they can be read.
When I’m half done, they dissipate.
It’s in the cards to stay up late.
It’s only signal to press on,
until a chorus like a fawn
will scamper in the forest green
and sing of wonders, sight unseen.
The earth rotates and time will crawl
till words flow like a waterfall.
Poems paddle by in their canoes.
I so prefer this to the news.
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