Sitting in the dark of night
floor lamp glowing near my shoulder
pen is poised prepared to write.
Time tics...night just gets older.

Ideas flit through empty head.
I've written of them all before
deepwoods dawn, an old homestead,
spring time chores, recluse's door.

Lined pages refuse to fill
and stare back at my tired eyes
while my pen hand remains still.
"Inspire me!" my muse cries.

The ceiling fan spins slowly on
and the house declines to creak.
Before long it will be dawn.
Tonight no ink will flow or leak.

So I set my gear aside
then arise from my leather chair
and go to join my sleeping bride.
Someone, I'm sure, writes on somewhere.