If I can’t write about a tree
my muse must be in trouble.
So to my poetic rescue troops,
come running on the double.
My muse might be drowningin the busyness of the day.
Or perhaps bogged down in quicksand
of vacationing away.
Maybe buried in the desert
so no one can hear its shout.
Or swinging from a noose
on the tree I’m to write about.
So while I’m basking in the sunshine,
my muse calls 9-1-1.But someone else can rescue it
while I’m having a little fun.