Muse, where art thou?
That breath of life and death
Which doth inhabit mine own head
And yet remaineth silent

Fist's blow doth smite my skull’s oak door
With resonating thunder
That I might wake thee from thy slumbers
Or is it that thou hidest from me?

Of pachyderms and hedgehogs
Thou hast had me write
And of the warp and weft
By weary weavers woven

Thou hast caused me to look both forward and backward
To dwell in the moment
Gaze lovingly upon herbaceous borders
And to taste the salt slick sensuality of the ocean’s breezes

Alas for now, I must languish
In the loneliness of muselessness
Once again awaiting
Thy presence
Thine inspiration

09/05/2002

Posted on 09/05/2002
Copyright © 2025 Anne Howe