I used to wait for inspiration’s nudge.
The spirit moved me now and then to write,
and what emerged was hard for me to judge
because my type so rarely saw the light.
Then I’d produce a poem or two a year –
occasional was all the prose I got.
So seldom did my fitful muse appear,
it seems I only wrote when I was hot.

A quarter century ago, I won
the charm an artist wants, to cast the spell
that lets the sisters frolic. Now the fun
is mine – conceits abound – I write to tell
it here: the bulb does not beget the show –
you have to work to make the wire glow.