In the stillness of first light before the birds sing,
while my love slumbers in silence beside me,
words come rapidly with beauty and clarity,
with humor and poignancy,
without abandon.
The writer within is free!
The internal editor is asleep!
The phone isn’t ringing.
There’s no one at the door.
I must write this down.
Where is my notebook, I frantically ponder,
and where is my pen when I need it?
Out by my chair where I left them?
Covers thrown back, my feet hit the floor;
I race to the spot and I grab them.
Pen poised over paper to record those words,
filled with beauty, clarity, humor, and poignancy,
that came so rapidly just seconds ago.
But, like birds on the wing,
the words have abandoned me!
disappearing with morning dew
under warm summer sun.
Another epic poem lost.
K K McClelland
April 16, 2005
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