A poem not yet written
Is like a genie incarcerated in its bottle,
Waiting for the gentle strokes
Of its poet’s liberating quill.

An image here, an alliteration there
Send emergent clouds of verbal magic
Floating into the aether,
Demanding to be crafted into
A tapestry of finest weave and hue.

It will be what it must
And not even the hope-filled poet
Can foretell its destiny.

But like all expectant parents,
Quaking in the throes of labor,
The poet hopes his or her newborn child
Will leave the world
An incrementally better place.