An idea on p. 57 of Rebecca Wragg Sykes' absorbing book, Kindred: Neanderthal Life, Love, Death and Art, jumped out at me: The smell in the air when stone implements are knapped is like just the smell of the silica-rich powder blanketing the moon. A haiku followed whole, not a syllable needed changing:
A Neanderthal
Knaps a flint. Silica flies.
Sharp tang of moon dust.
What a lift any burst of creativity gives you, however minor!