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At The Muses' Temporary Absence
When, due to circumstance, we must be gone
a little while, or really must put on
those unpoetic burdens we call shoes,
each one of us seems not to be a Muse.
Our faithful poets' inspiration slows
at first, then halts. Then turgid, worldly prose
sets in; shadows and chill; dim entropy
envelops like a haunted winding sheet.
Then . . . we return. Unshod, our stockinged feet
trace out the lineaments of space and time
to which our poets will affix their rhyme.
Upon the pages of their poetry,
the constellations of the stars ignite,
and all the galaxies bloom forth in light.
