Tuesday, December 07, 2004


Come to me, o muse of pen
And course across the page
Let words flow out of sense
And paper be thy stage

Let fly the ink to indelible stain
From a heart that finds its speech
Once writ it lies for every eye
To see the inward reach

May this trail of penciled lead
Scribe over smooth pulped wood
A tale of import and delight
Easily understood

To be carried from this day forth
In hearts ever young
On lips, place this song
That it be ever sung

For ‘tis not I who creates what’s writ
But serving for thy use
I give you chance to make clear
What once seemed obtuse

Tho’ accolades of hand and word
May come to find my ear
I, in simple gratitude,
Thank you for being here

Ron Eklof (c) 2002

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