All those words, all
about finding inspiration,
but what she really said
was, “Just begin,
the inspiration comes
from the act.”
So, here I sit, right here
at the beginning, moving
on the act in hopes of being
inspired. Finding instead,
blank white paper
waiting for all those words
to give it definition.
Have done the breathing,
in and out, more sigh
than hope, or rope
I was thinking might be
followed. Not so much
as a thread inside this head,
more like a sled sliding
downhill without direction.
Inspiration raises a delicate
hand to her lips and giggles,
then slips away into gray
fog of confusion. “Maybe,”
she whispers, “not today,
but sometime soon, like
tomorrow near noon,
or perhaps when the moon
has become fuller.”
This sled has run amuck,
gotten stuck in an out-of- season
snow bank. Apologize to page
for filling it with nonsense
and haze. Then whisper her tune
of maybes, sometime, and noon,
yet always promise to come back
tomorrow.
Elizabeth Crawford 4/27/09
Soul's Music 