Pardon me, please. I seem to write sonnets
each time I see you. This inspiration,
I suppose, springs forth as with most poets
confronted by beauty. Hesitation’s
unhealthy for us. We respond with ease
to the appearing Muse, just as viewers
in museums praise Van Gogh’s masterpiece
displayed before them, recognize its pure
and rare essence, like miners for gold who
suddenly stumble on a lone diamond,
or mountain-cave explorers finding blue
sky, and at cliff’s edge uncharted ocean.
Poets don’t seek out such amazing tides.
Truth is, the Muse flows forth when she decides.
Roger Armbrust
