my river has run dry, I am looking to my muse for rain
my body sits on the dried out parched banks of poetry
casting my fishing line of mind into the murky depth
I get excited as there is a tug in the swirling whirlpool
I start to reel the line in, gentle tugs for the reel might snap
half way in my mind trout brakes free, diving fast and furious
swimming deeper back into the dark abyss of a profusion
I refuse to give up, for if there was one nibble on my line
there would surely have to be another, even if it is different fish
I bait this line with soft music for I am sure prose loves this
feeling soft nibbles I wait with batted breath and ready paper
when it comes it hits with a flash, jerking my line hard
almost pulling me into the dark waters, I dig my heels into the shore
and start to reel in the fish again, I know this one is bigger
for my shoulders ache and my mind races showering me with sparks
A whale brakes the surface and throws a spray of water in my face
this whale poem is here and now set free for all to see
leaning back on the now green shore of my task complete
looking up to my cloud muse who heard and understood
storming down on me  putting out the fire that consumed me