When my pen is a shackle
And Muse flaunts her noose
I flee to earth’s foothills
Fancy-free and footloose
When hope is a hunger
And Duty is bleak
I find in God’s garden
The things that I seek
In babble of brook-song
In whisper of wind
In nature’s caresses
Both humble, yet grand
In the rush of the seasons
The hush of the night
God’s rejuvenation
Brings faith to my sight
…and the pen becomes weightless
Muse’s noose is a bluff
As thought sings God’s praises
And that is enough
© Janet Martin
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