Awash with white this blankest page it waited here for me.
Awhile the season shifted round the evergreen fir tree.
Accounted for were my attentions; blown was my routine.
Away was my inspiration; no writing to be seen.
Aswarm with people were my days & many of my nights.
Afire it seemed the homesteads were with blinking singing lights.
Amended was my raison d’être; giving was the thing.
Arrested were my wee creations; dammed was my wellspring.
Awaken now my sleeping page, I’ve tickled you enough.
Abreast I’ve lain the words you’ll wear to cover up your buff.