Who knows where poets get their inspiration be it real or imagined?

While contemplating what to write
Old bard sat gazing candlelight
Shadows were cast upon the floor
Saw scampering beneath the door

Old bard with candle held in hand
Went to the door there he did stand
Thinking of what made movement there
Scratching in thought his wild white hair

Beneath the door did reappear
An elf climbed whispered in his ear
A story of the forests green
Visions old bard had never seen

From whence this elf small person came
This apparition had no name
Only a story to impart
To old bard which did touch his heart

Bard grabbed his pen began to write
The story elf told him that night
Of fairies dancing 'round mushrooms
Weaving fine silk on silver looms

Falling asleep when story wrote
The morning came as did a note
Beneath the door from whence he came
Imagination is my name


Jane Noponen Perinacci