Skill

The words do not come easily to me

Despite appearances. Sometimes I wrestle

With one phrase for a quarter of an hour.

Sometimes they fly with neat fluidity

Sometimes they're ground out with mortar and pestle

Sometimes that too seems far beyond my power.

Of course I have some phrases that are stock

And others that are central to my goal

In writing what I write or seek to write.

But then, it seems, sometimes the muse will mock

Whatever she has placed within my soul

And leave me on my own, as is her right.

And in those times when I must miss my art

That is the time I try to write my heart.