Writer’s Block
Cold wintry night, in dark wind and snow,
Stuck stormstayed inside, with nowhere to go.
By my fireside, there’s a warm soft glow.
Though candles burn bright, they’re now burning low.
Tennyson pleases, reciting his poems.
Walt Whitman teases with offers of prose.
Charles Dickens then reads, of new fallen snow.
Hungering, I listen for the wind that blows.
My lamp soon flickers from darkness to bright,
As fireside friends now vanish from sight.
Alone with my pen, still nothing to write,
Humbled by masters, on bleak winter’s night.