Since fourth grade, I have been bewitched, bedeviled, and blessed by a bountiful muse... except for the dry spells when she's forgotten me entirely. I find joy in reading the magic spun by others' words, and delight in the words that my muse brings to me.
Awaiting the Muse
Here I sit, awaiting the Muse.
I’ve set the scene,
Lit candles and sent soft music
Wafting on the breeze.
Eyes closed, senses high,
Steaming mug of tea at hand,
I wait for that nibble at my brain,
That whisper in my ear.
Dearest Muse, where is your spark?
What words will you bring
When at last you arrive?
Should I await you outside,
In the shade of the apple tree?
Or would the playful wind steal your gift
And fly it to another?
Gentle Muse, find my willing mind
Fill it with your bounty.
Or will you, once again,
Make me come to you?