Nothing More Than a Scribe

I am nothing more than a scribe.

The poem arrives in its own time.

I hear the words in the inner ear

And write the lines as they descend.

Often there comes a continuous flow

Unless the useless mind intervenes

Wanting to improve upon the muse,

But there are also moments when one must wait,

Open the soul and let the blessing come,

Quiet the being, empty the too-full jar

Make space for something new, unheard before.

Whether it is poetry or not

I leave to wiser spirits to decide.

Perhaps it is only a cleansing force, a grace

Filtering down through this unworthy head.

One thing that I must do is take up the pen

As if a silent voice within commands

With gentleness behind its full support.

I am nothing more than a scribe.