Birthing a Poem
I feel foreboding in each sense,
(Not of some tragedy or ill,
Rather of more significance!);
A turmoil of creative will!.
I cannot ease this calm unrest
Nor yet advance its crisis-time.
It runs its course, as nascence must,
To reach a climax at its prime.
I, anxiously contented, wait
For this resolving flux to tense;
Half-feared and half-intoxicate
By its pervasive influence:
For, in due time, it will give birth in terms
Which will surprise myself by their concerns!.
