I’d stop to indulge in my cursed writer’s rut,
And cease to perch beneath the spiky pine,
Like the winter snow my thoughts doth jut,
Beside a flame, on delicious dreams dine,
No forest bequeath or mountain’s soul call,
Just the spring of my writer’s pen approach,
As doth many a story on these blank pages fall,
The chilly snow, nigh the singing wind encroach,
Perhaps my mind in another universe doth roam,
Witness to more then what the eyes here fathom,
Like a child’s delight in summer’s soft moan,
Stories of Mermaids dwelling in nature’s bosom,
Star by star and sun by sun, stories here themselves doth tell,
Of beautiful Queens and Kings of valor, my pen doth here compel.
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