Nature of Muse

My muse in heart or mind

is without personality, 

unless, unbeknownst to me, 

a ghostly persona hovers over me.

It is words ~

Words that roll out like

multi-coloured berries or beads

dark and shadowy or

full of glitter and joy

some discarded as too pedantic and soulless

Words that practically beg 

to be laid down

like tracks guiding trains

through tall trees and around snowy mountains,

up into desert high, arid mesas,

or to stretch and roll across vast prairie landscapes

My muse may be story.

Stories that spill out

over coffee and conversation 

at kitchen tables or coffee shops,

over the airwaves in sound or pictures,

crackling from newsprint or the pages of a novel,

photographs old or new

intrigue and feed my muse.

I could also say ~

my muse is the architecture of story 

that fascinates and maybe it is ~

the beautiful and elegant manner that

tellers and writers of story craft and weave words 

to lift me up, or to reveal the soul of reality.

Oh, and the sky.

My muse takes flight into 

the streaming clouds with geese,

black birds and meadow larks

while the sun's rays spread

brilliance throughout the day,

colours as evening wanes

letting the moon and stars

shine silver light across the velvet sky.

“To be a muse is to be a wonder in someone else’s eyes, flaws and all.”

~ L.H.Cosway, Still Life with Strings