By Bud Koenemund
At rest now, on desktop – yet, I reflect,
Not long ago part of a mighty tree –
Poised as canvas for form crafted perfect,
But oft’ revealing insufficiency.
Does it yearn, like the poet, to become
Great – an ode comparing a summer’s day;
Evening stops by snowy woods; or songs from
Lovers lamenting loss; a chance to gain
Immortality in some small measure?
When the muse speaks, and quill dances with page,
Mere words metamorphose into treasure.
A frenzied scribe ink alone can assuage,
As they create worlds with paper and pen –
Driving imagination beyond ken.