Writing

there once was a woman
who tried to create
a chant or a poem
each day before eight
she tossed and she turned
every night in her bed
to put down the words
that would swirl in her head

sometimes it was poetry
other times it was prose
there were days it was easy
and nights it just froze
but over and over
in darkness or light
her pen scratched out words
either serious or trite

she could barely begin
barely come to a halt
she wrote down pure sugar
she scribbled pure salt
but at first and at last
as she jumped and she hopped
she couldn’t – just couldn’t –
couldn’t come to a stop

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