A Curiosity I

What happens when a poem enters
your head while you're ill?
Does it chill and shudder while
you yawn, tired at the thought
of the hard work that you know
must come before the sickness leaves
or the words are written?
Or must it stand there, waiting
             to be invited in,
hat in hand, and coughing slightly
to get your attention?
Are you willing to risk the germ,
to sow and tend, water and reap,
gather up the fragments for later,
until, finally, you
           and the poem
lie down together,
spent, and flat?
What happens when a poem
enters your head?