The poetry came back

Poetry came back, like the cat of the song.
It had only been sleeping. I was afraid it was gone 
and then it came raging out, ravenous, 
half-starved for silence and time, 
desperate for attention, and resentful
of the days of deep freeze.
I'd only snowed so hard out of self-defense;
Poetry is an inconsolable animal, and hard to live with.
And I was tired. 

But I must admit--something in me leapt up
with an emotion something like Joy, 
to see it come roaring down the mountain
So completely alive.