The Muse

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.

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