Thirteenth Night

That visitation thing is just not happ’ning –

I’ve thought all day, and this is all I’ve got;

Perhaps a metaphor will help: a sapling

From which a poem may grow, or maybe not.

I’ve spent the day alone – it’s Thirteenth Night,

And still I’m thirsty, weary, nearly dead

Of waiting for a seed that maybe might

Ascend to something, put this thing to bed.

But suddenly a sunburst breaks to find

A thought that’s truly quite spectacular –

A golden sunlight showcase of the mind

Leads bright as any navigational star.

Oh, please be kind and do not ask, “What is it?”

But simply let us go and make our visit.