A Jig

In the drip of the rain on the roof of the home,

and the sway of the boughs in the late winter breeze,

though the skies linger gray and the squirrels start to roam,

I retreat to my desk and compose as I please.

With a trope that is chosen, my characters rise,

and the page softly stirs with a flicker of spark,

there are passions and questions and masked alibis,

as history bends to the shape of an arc.

In the hush before night and the hour I arise,

with the hearthfire aglow and the teacups held tight,

I dream of the blossoming park under blue skies,

yet linger indoors while I quietly write.

When the draft finds its end and revisions begin,

there are proofs to be polished and covers in store,

yet my heart ever turns to the tale tucked within,

for another new love waits to dance to the fore.