The slow slog of creativity

every day, we sit down, us perseverent types
and do our thing, play a flute, write a poem,
try to do a Pilates sit-up and trust that one day..
it will happen after weeks of  no apparent progress.
it's the everyday that a tiny corner of the mind or
body yields a miniscule amount, opening a little
space for a new idea that wanders in so quietly.
it seemed so obvious, there was no lightning like that
outside my window that just appeared, followed
by thunder, how many seconds away.
the clouds outside my window are ominous
and the storm is yet miles away, will the rain
come down in torrents as my mind wanders
from micrometeoroids to honeycomb panels,
from poems to the psychology of performance,
from basement clean ups to the lovely quiet
of an evening that darkens, the bed beckoning
lightly now, but will soon embrace me in
spite of myself, a full night for the mind
to wander in strange places and come up
with new creative urges.