O Muse

Sing to me. . .

Most of us who write (I’m reluctant to call myself a writer) hit a dry spell every once in a while. The twin taps of inspiration and invention get shut off—at best, there may be a slow drip to keep us hopeful. We worry that the Muse has deserted us. Or maybe the fault lies with us and how well we’re listening.

Here’s a brief reflection on that conundrum.

Thanks for spending a moment with me today.

Source: https://www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/bewicks-wren

O Muse
		Sing to me, Muse. . . 

Muse, you’re late again today.
Sure, I’ll forgive you. I know
you’re busy, always on the go—
All those who’ve got an MFA—
They have rent they have to pay.
But there’s that craving for the high you bring
when you give me something new to sing.
No matter how I try, I just can’t make it go away.

Maybe my hearing’s getting worse.
Could it be I didn’t hear your voice
in the breeze that lifted, tossed the leaves,
in my granddaughter’s constant “Play with me, please”?

Or did I miss it and its hallmark thrill
in the Bewick wren’s sharp buzz and trill?