Waiting for Inspiration

I have waited for years
for the goblet of mead
to be passed down from the gods.
I have longed
to drink their vital vial
and feel the ancient illumination
flood my famished frame
with the sun’s first light.
I have waited for
the muse to hum
the song I was born to sing.
I have waited
for the gardener
to take the spade
to turn the soil
and plant the seed.

But I have waited too long.
Drunkards are running the streets
crying that they have no wine
and the sun has blinded the blind men.
Deaf men sit by the brook
humming the muse’s song.

The tiller tarries
like a ship lost at sea.
No gardener will come.
The spade waits for me


—Eric Nelson