My Musing Reason
At seventy-three I find
My thoughts and writings emerge
From my mind
With hardly a surge.
Then there are times
When an unknown Source
Creates lyrics of rhyme
Like water flowing its course.
That Spirit might hover
For hours, days, or weeks at a time.
Any writer covets this Lover
With powers so sublime.
In the low country of the tall palmetto
With that Source an artist wrote
A prose, a fluid libretto
Painting life from within an encircling moat.
But at the yellowing of his physical frame,
Came a visit from his Guide.
At first acknowledging his prosaic flame
He then said, “Come home to Me, abide.”
There is a time for everything under heaven,
For everything there is a reason.
His artistic life was literary leaven,
Never a losing season.