We Writers

We writers wish for whispers from elusive muses.
Inside our souls they knock on ribs and race the blood,
Needing heartbeat rhythms to compose the lines.
Kilns, firing internal, cook stories shaped from clay images;
Loving divine hands cup all our spinning vessels, holding
Everything there is for us - the words, the sounds,
Teeming rivers flooding pages with poetry and prose:
The sweet surrender to a world of constant creation.