Daydreams of a Drowsy Poet

Austere, the cranial landscape
settled into acceptance. The need
to create something lush to brighten the grayness – that
is what lingers there waiting
for the Muse to fly in from some exotic location.

It begs your exquisite mind
for a place to land and upon your acquiescence
a garden blooms…delphiniums, hollyhocks,
verbena, and suddenly a name,
someone you used to know.

The face hazy, but that day
unfolds before you like a dream.
Maybe it was a dream; delphiniums
don’t do so well in clay. 
You notice the bells have quit ringing

and  then
 you understand
it is not truth,
but the search for truth
that makes a poem.