I've stopped writing.

I've stopped writing.
I've stopped banging my head against the wall
and pounding on computer keys late at night
and crumpling ink-filled pages in my fists.

I've stopped because
I can do that
and know that it will be
right here
waiting
when I come back.

Drafts sitting
half-finished
in a folder, or
the clumsy scrawl
of 4 AM and
handwritten notions -
I find them precisely where I left them.

There is no resentment here,
and no impatience.
They do not pester or prod me,
do not beg or plead.
They ask nothing,
they simply
repeat
back to me
the life I nearly gave them.

Sometimes, still unfit to touch,
I tiptoe in,
just to have a peek,
just to make sure I didn't dream it all.
I count their sleeping heads
and listen to them breathe
and know that they are mine
and tiptoe out again,
feeling quite
irresponsible,
and quite proud.

Make no mistake:
When I pick up my pen again -
and I will -
I will pluck up the courage
to ask it to dance, and
after a few cautious steps,
it will be
as if I never left.

Sonnet

There came a moment late last night
I woke as with a sudden fever.
Before these eyes had tasted light,
I swore myself a non-believer.
At once I summoned up the dream
That claimed to know my heart's design,
But in my sight it did not seem
To recognize these oaths of mine.
It vanished ere I looked away,
And no more lingered in my mind;
I begged in vain that it should stay,
For in its absence was I blind.
      Such dreams are spun with borrowed gold
      That no mere man can keep or hold.