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In olden days, as they say, An Epiphany fairy might be on its way.

Whether you write for pleasure Or write for pain, Ideas are delivered just the same.

A he or a she (or quite possibly a they) Might hit with force like bales of hay.

They’ll come on a whim or whisper or squeak, They’ll come at the sound of you Grinding your teeth.

They’ll give you ideas and be on their way, Sometimes they’ll visit twice in one day.

The old stories go, Whether friend or foe, Summoning them requires plucks from a crow.

Any bird feather will do in a pinch, As long as it measures longer than 1”.

Hide it under your pillow Or desk, Or mat, Sometimes under your shirt as you lay flat.

The fairy will come and feed on dismay, Though rumor has it, they hate rainy days.

A flutter of air, The squirt of a pear, Epiphany fairies don’t care what they wear.

They change how they appear, But you’ll know when they’re near.

They come with a sack, Or a wand or a stick, And give you ideas, Some smart, some quick.

Then off they fly and off they go, To unclog someone else’s word-flow.