There are worse problems

I have a brand new pen
& a crisp, blank sheet of paper
but no picture comes to my imagination

My fingers are poised
over the keyboard
but I have no story to tell

Ah, but the sweet West breeze
whispers through the leaves of the trees
and gives me a tease gently on this porch

Across town, the clarion rings
an old hymn from the bell tower
it sings in my mind like a choir

So I let them both bathe me
and settle for living in a poem
instead of writing one