The Return

The hands itched to hold a pen,
The pen swayed gracefully,
As the little writer emerged from her den,
To re-create long forgotten verses joyfully.

She felt the magic around,
Even as thoughts became words,
Even as the rains hit the ground,
Evoking the smell of earth and mud.

She was a mere weary lumberer,
Resting at the sight of shade, escaping the sun,
And before long she had fallen into deep slumber,
And now she must really go on,
The show must really go on.