The Beginning of Muse
Echos of an empty Winter passing into gray day,
neighbor sounds bouncing off hard surfaces -
bare trees, frozen ground, shut windows -
nothing but relays of gossip, whispers and slamming doors.
The old death is leached out of us
morning by morning, Aurora shedding her clothes
one article further, bringing on the birth.
These are not mere words
held locked by the frozen tongue of rivers,
ideas held before us like breath frozen in the morning air or
tendrils of thought reaching from another mind
to our own. Here, now,
the spirit materializes in front of me,
a muse mad with design
ready to howl at the silence in our hearts,
the lost dreams of a sleep just past.
The naked form dances with glitters of frost
and musically sings, glad
in her driven love and obsession.
I am but a vassal,
holding her pen, become her tongue.
Brimming with troubles and joys.