THE WRITING LIFE

The fire is out!
My cat, curled on a fireside chair,
Bestows a green-eyed soft reproach.
How long is it that pen in hand,
I have been lost in some far land?
Already dark!
It must have snowed the whole long day.
I've let my stove side wood stack dwindle
Till nothing's left for even kindle.
Where did I put my tall, warm boots?
I believe that Life and Time are in cahoots
Conspiring against all finished books,
Intruding on each writer's dream
In some fore-plotted "busy" scheme.
So -- supper should have long been cooked?
But I have been in fairer climes
Where one can thrive on words and rhymes.