Could the trees out my backdoor be my muse?

When dressed in gold and other bright hues.

I don’t write with a brush or type with a lens,

And so, with a rake this musing must end.

Days later again in my kitchen I stand,

To watch wind and rain coax those trees to disrobe.

Now leaves will blanket what was cleaned up land,

But can they now release a poem to be told?

I spent cozy evenings in consult with Maya,

Would she free my hand, give me something to say?

In just fifty pages, she did impart

The wisdom of ages, straight from her heart.

For just a while Maya is back on the shelf.

If this gal is to write, I must be by myself

Her story, her lovers, her joys and her tears

Belong to Maya and are hers alone.

Each one of us must face our own fears,

Each one of us must write our own poem.

So, I asked Alexa to send me a Buddy

Surely his sense of rhythm and rhyme,

Could clear my head & make it less muddy

But Peggy Sue and Days That’ll Be,

Didn’t inspire profound verse for me.

Still can’t quite get pen to paper

‘Cause writing while dancing would be quite the caper.

Claire Murphy lives in Ledyard.

The Times is offering local readers a chance to share their poetry written during or related to the ongoing coronavirus pandemic. To contribute, email times@theday.com.