Inside was so much doggerel
He feared he would one day explode.
Words were his banquet—he was full.
He’d hit the poet’s mother lode.
But “poet” is too generous
To use for him, an amateur.
To label someone giftless thus
Is to award a heartless boor
A Nobel Prize for Peace. But on
He scribbled, day and night, until
His words, at last, were finally gone.
He paused, then wondered if some pill
Could make the vanished words return.
He tried them all, found no relief,
Then realized he had to learn
To live alone in wordless grief.
But Love arrived one day in spring,
And words that had all flown away
Returned (yes, Love can do this thing),
And words again, both night and day,
Flew from his fingers, and his mate,
Who read his output every day,
Thought all of it was just first-rate.
And thus Love grew, in every way.