CREATION
Antennae thrumming, 
Waiting for ideas to flutter by,
She waits with a net
To catch them like butterflies.
Lets them buzz in her head
And flow down through her hand
The throes of creation bleed blue
Onto the waiting paper.
Reams of longhand dry slowly but surely
Into patterns of euphoria,
As she sits back, spent:
A smile and a tear, the only witnesses.