Meandering thoughts awaken me,

With the persistence of a busy bee.

They know I have no tolerance

For losing my needed sleep.

It seems they are enchanted,

By the stories I write about them.

They know they may be fables,

From an imaginations whim.

I am pleased they are delighted,

In the prose they bring to me.

A poet would be most distraught,

If they should suddenly not be.

Now I'm awake and happy

Knowing their words are in print.

Simple as it might appear,

I remember what Simon sent.