Sometimes the words won’t come,
Distraction wiles all time.
But rain—artful pander—
Intrudes to nourish rhyme.
Downpour destroys the lure
Of beach and friendly schmooze,
Thrusts the sluggish poet
To bed down with his muse.
Rain is good for rhubarb,
But, mainly, it breaks through
The block that writers rue—
There’s nothing else to do!
(2/16/09)