Whether pen or pixel, have it close
The muse moves swiftly as a ghost
Unencumbered by thought or meaning
Or time or place or convenient leaning
The muse won’t wait, she’s an impulsive girl
She saunters in and lights the world
And I’ll scramble like a love struck boy
All elbows and jostle, to record the joy
Alas I’m learning, though not too quick
To honor thy muse, I am fortunate.
There’s no telling when she’ll tickle
She likes to be heard, she will be fickle
And leave as quickly as she’s come
leave me a grasping, a race not run
Sometimes I’ll find her, most mundane
And coax her softly to her refrain
It’s then she’ll kiss me and hold my heart.
And I respectfully take my start.