She tries to decide if her log belongs
in her poem—toss it on the campfire
or refuse to add her warmth to their long
bitter-cold lost night. The Muse must inspire
us—she sees that now. In our universe
of 100 trillion images, how
can we alone choose each word, make a verse
of exact phrases unless we bow, vow
to Her to meditate, listen, record
what we hear, humble ourselves to edit
our echoes of Her chorus. She adored
the lyre at first sight and sound, loves poets
for sitting alone, waiting, looking deep
within, trusting the promises She’ll keep.
Roger Armbrust
November 20, 2014
