Those days when you can't write you are
morose just like a punished child.
You rub your face with clammy hands
and look as if you've never smiled.
You moan because the words won't come,
and those that do you toss aside.
The basket's full of crumpled sheets.
"That's trash! Yes, all of it!" you cried.
I am your wife, your biggest fan,
but on such days you listen not
to what I say or recommend.
Advice once heeded you forgot.
It saddens me you have not learned
that talent often takes its time
to percolate and eke into
a piece quite good, perhaps sublime.
A day or two will pass before
you softly call my name and smile.
"I've written this. I think it's good.
Was all the time I spent worthwhile?"
|
