Unwritten Art

when the words won't come

I yearn to harvest the
snatches of verse
whirling crazy in my
grey matter.
I smell the drifting
fragrance of sweet meter
and image and long to
find the tree on which
they hang, to pluck
fruit from the branches
of poetry.

Inspiration is heavy
at the moment.
Weather dark and damp,
house quiet and empty,
life confusing and
somewhat melancholy,
yet laden with blessings.
Lending material for
sentiment both tormented
and thankful.

So why can I not caress
paper with pen
and meld together
random bits and pieces
of unwritten art?