Monday, December 19, 2011


My Muse, the gift of God and memory,
Is silent, doesn’t always speak to me
With her crepe myrtle lips or skipping feet
That dance out lines in a butterfly beat –
I chastise her and here she is, divine
And making poems I pretend are mine –
I measure out my words until the Fates
Cut off the lines and measure out the weights
Which keep the poem hanging at the height
Where all can see the colors as the bright
Hot flame illuminates its sphere – the sky
Invites the brave with their unclouded eye
To contemplate the zinnias which sing,
The dance and song which hides in everything.

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