The morning was reading my poem,
but I wasn’t paying attention.
This happens, sometimes, when I focus solely on myself.
I forget to look up and listen.
The sun was singing her song.
(one of the classic jazz standards)
The clouds were coloring their canvas.
(a new shade of cornsilk)
The wind was dancing.
(the jitterbug is his favorite)
But I, lost in trivial thought, missed the show,
assuming I would find inspiration elsewhere,
in my own sullen isolation, most likely,
not accepting the wisdom of my muses.
will you ever forgive my fickle mind?
When I see you again, I hope you will tell me why,
with all the big stuff you have,
you can always be counted on to show me the words,
and with all the small stuff I have,
I can never be counted on to receive them.