An idea germ fell off my pen. I shook
the writing instrument hard; a few more
thought microbes dropped, landed on blankness.

Somehow I liked the way this poem took off
on its own – built a form I’d never seen. Could
this be magic or a mysterious disease?

Strange, after that, for a time, no matter
how much I exposed myself to more contagion,
read new poets, searched newspapers
for unusual words, fed on unwashed dictionaries,
few thoughts infected my page.

Art can be like that – illusive, flighty,
independent with a mind of its own. A bit showy
at times, wanting recognition, but refusing
to be put in a box and labeled.

Sometimes, loping along, I almost see something,
then it wisps into a fog that won’t stay put on paper.
It leaves an artful trail across a window. Quick
I grab my pen, but it steams away.

Never mind. I can wait. I’ll keep placing words,
one after the other, on my page until an image takes shape.
Then I’ll know art and I are on speaking terms again.