Poet

I sing and the woods sing.
Flower-cups, a slumbering alder,
each soft corner of the grass.
On the horizon, on the calm green water
in rows - as the poet may direct
morning shadows
and blue herons.

I dipped the pencil,
masquerading as a plume,
into the cool ink
while my muse, the Greek Goddess
lies in wait.

I gauge distance from that time
of sour thoughts
and tremble to feel
fragments scatter and cut like glass.

Suddenly
a brilliant blue flash.
I struggle with these uninvited guests -
snarling monsters
fangs behind the fog.
Black devils and wolves!

Now words bathe my paper
where the stars might sleep,
lines emerge from a jaded belly
some swirl and bounce
others clutch and clench.
I hold fast the leash
of musty dogs.
Snares are laid,
traps baited.
Words lusty.
Some seduce,
some the demon hides
defiant.

Yes! This tune has promise.
I hum above the fray.
Wounds hidden.
Scars painted gaudy colors.
Devils dispelled.

How many times must
I travel this road
or is it best to wander?