A free-verse poem to my "poetic muse."

My poetic output slowed
to a trickle before drying up
completely this past year
like a brook in August drought.
My poetic muse would often
quietly whisper seeds of ideas
for possible poems in my ear,
but other pressing commitments
focused all my attention elsewhere
while the incipient poem languished
neglected and unattended
prior to dying from starvation.

Now I have recommitted myself
to writing. I stand ripe and ready
to nourish any precious sown seeds
into fully flowered creations
of joy and beauty fulfilled.
I cup my hand behind my ear.
Uh, my muse, could you
speak a little louder please?