On Writing A Poem During An Autumnal Evening

Every moment marks a shaded encounter
a palpitation sweating in the wings
forgetting lines I blabber breathless banter
whilst adults try to figure serious things
 
and as the pen rolls out the line with caution
the muse looks on and wonders if she shall
decide to gift the scene with inspiration
or let the poet flounder, feeling small
 
the one thing learned from years of tortured writing
is not to push too hard, or else the muse
will say “his mind is closed, I will not fight him
he’s left no room, there’s nothing I can do”
 
and every day I’m challenged to be humble
I wake up in the morning - I’m still breathing
which happens by itself - I cannot grumble
as muses and their kind refuse to leave me
 
the fire-season’s over in our region
I’ve filled the wood-store ready for the winter
another year is ambling to completion
and poems wait with patience to be written.