I tried to believe there is no such thing as a muse to incite some kind of art. But now I'm empty and the birds don't sing, the leaves have all fallen and so's my heart.  I have no words with which a net I'd knit that I might capture your dear heart and soul. And now for two hours I've done naught but sit, with a net not made of words, just all hole.  But how do I catch what I cannot hold, my hands stuck in these holed pockets so deep? My fingers empty of all but the cold, with no words I can sew, so none shall I reap.  Please touch me with a whisper, my muse, old friend. remind my imagination how I've been wrong. Together we'll fill autumn's trees again, lift my heart, and the birds' voices in song.
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