My impatient Muse -- Dormant these long unfruitful years -- Stirring now, riffling the surface, Voiceless, threatening disruption of The uncertain peace, The sterile waters Of an ordered life. How comes this restless urge to spin out words? Cadencing experience? Shall I refuse to see, to hear? Live with achievement past and present well-fulfilled? Or, surrendering, Take up my singing pen, translating Urge to image, Slipping phrases onto curves of thought? Attend that Muse? Give voice, That gift which in itself bears Further gifts?