There is not a poem
in me tonight–
no sight, nor sound
stealing my brain
A wind came through
wrapped up my muse
whipped him away
before I knew it
I lay my head down
upon the wanting
pillow; I cannot rest
here all alone
Perhaps tomorrow
the captured fellow
will find his way
into a poem
Tonight I tarry
no telling time
someone captured
my sense of rhyme.
Ah, there you are,
you charming dreamer
escaped from Boreas,
that midnight schemer.
Word Play 