As promised last week, here is one of the poems from my little purple notebook.
In my heart, I am a poet.
But the words won’t come
when bidden.
They come in the night when the world is asleep
when my mind is empty
and quiet as the room.
Warm cat purring,
down comforter comforting,
a blanket of sleep squeezing tight.
Awake, the words fail to delight.
No longer profound.