by Gideon Burton
I've taxed her limit; this I will admit.
Each day I've wrung her robes for drops of light,
for music (when I wasn't feeling it),
for anger (when I didn't have the fight).
At times she has refused me, made me walk
in blind unrhythmed prose, inert, and blank.
At times the waters burst my writer's block,
then calmed their froth so I had strength to thank.
I've found that one can tame the flighty sprite,
can summon depths and heights that she had hidden.
If I am brave to fail in black and white,
she takes me up the paths that once she didn't.
A year of writing sonnets, one each day,
I've squeezed my muse until I've heard her pray.
Photo: flickr - WilWheaton