The Muse and the Poet

A pastel cushion rests on your leather chair –
ever dinted by your back, and the gentle
valleys of your shoulders. The very
essence of you lingers – a heady mix
of sandalwood and pine.

Beside me, stands a vase of red tulips – belying
the veil of snow outside the window
and feel no rancour, that, reading your words,
your day was filled with sweeping fields
of flax, and autumn-touched trees...

or that these, on the sill...last evening’s candles –
wax hardening in the grizzled glare of morning,
were ablaze last night, quavering in a rush
of passion. I am only pleased that you have eyes
to praise them, and inspiration enough to write...

that criss-cross trails from a high flying plane
fair embroider the sky, and that a robin’s eyes
capture the light – perched on an upright
garden spade.

ooo000ooo

Closing the blinds, blue shadows bend
to the persistent passage of time, I sense
the wind, almost hold its breath.

Then a sudden stir, as falls from a branch,
a sprinkling of snow; a limb...left, quivering
in beauty...as does my heart, each time
to her you go... And, if I were a poet,
I’d find words to tell you so.