We bathed in the river at sundown,
red leaves kissing the sky.
The water was cold,
but the liquor in our bellies kept us warm.
Sometimes I think I need to step aside,
relax, and let the words come as they may,
not coax them from the caves wherein they hide.
Another writer understands the pride
I feel when words come fast, light up my day.
I think, though, that I need to step aside,
and to allow them their wide berth, their slide
from visibility to sheaths of gray.
I won’t coax them from caves wherein they hide,
although I cannot easily abide
the fickleness of words and how they play
with my desire to write. I’d step aside
more gracefully if I knew they would ride
onto my screen and let me have my say.
They sometimes live in caves and need to hide
from all my yammering. I now confide
words’ power held over me, and so I stay
in my world waiting for my muse to stride
near: You no longer have to step aside.