To write a poem
You must pretend to sleep,
Sitting up
With a pen,
For if you jump up
To catch the Muse,
All is washed away
Like a dream upon awakening.
There are no better lines
Than those in dreams.
Sleep opens to visions and
Images to truths untold as dreams slip
Into the darkness of the rising sun.
Trance is a collage of words
Dissipating in a fog if jostled,
Fluttering like butterflies
Caught in a net ready to escape.
Mindless chatter forming maxims
Quenched by quiet rumination,
Taking form in rhyme and meter.
In dreams the Muse tells secrets.
Poets can never sleep.
Copyright Ā© 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard
Image: Pixabay.com
Ā
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 
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