When your only time
for writing is at day
break, when snow is
dazzling bright
and toes are numb
with winter’s chill,
it is hard to write
of heat and hay, or a
beach
of noon-hot sand.
So the morning poet waits
and hopes that evening
comes without delay,
so lines of sunset and the
moon
can flow from out his pen.
Then suddenly it is far
too dark to see to write…
JRMcF
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