When my pen sits idle

     my words still twirl around

Within my busy mind

     words tumble without sound

When my trowel sits idle

     beside a four-pronged claw

From moist soil, seeds still sprout

     without my heart's hurrah

So, when I do not write

     nor in my garden toil

Creation still occurs

     despite idle turmoil

But when I take control

     with pen or trowel or claw

My purpose kindles flame

     from which my heart can draw

When I let life happen

     I feel I am Fate's toy

When I guide my effort

     my life is filled with joy

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