11 Mar 2016 – Rubaiyat

The sun rolls down the western slope of alpine skies
and leaves a smokey trail of gold as pine boughs sigh.
I’ve kept the treadmill moving – was it all enough?
Or does my true call manifest when stars draw nigh?

I’ve been a sounding lute, I cannot tell you when
I first heard bending branches calling in the wind
and looking up from play my soul sang all at once,
the strings responding to the poems as yet unpenned.

The waking world of work names me with other names.
It only asks I do my tasks – and stay the same.
A tool of trade, by night a dreamwright singing songs,
I work the Muse’s second shift, forgetting fame.