This Time Of Writing

This time of writing

comes as it wills.

I have no clear means

to provoke the muse

or lure her here.

I cannot

hold sway over her;

making her to wander

this way and then that –

a puppeteer with a randy

disposition.

A gentle falling snowflake

of unusual shape and size;

a lilting piece of moss

draped carelessly over

a lichen covered rock.

These are instants that

push open the gates

of time-less-ness and

usher in the full now;

she follows in

just before

the door is closed.

I have no warning of

what sight will fire out

into the tangles of synapses

of the pictures in my mind;

I cannot foretell what

sound will reach back

and in to the registry

of interior rhapsody and song.

The gray shroud

that hangs just at the

edges of this winter

mountain view

evokes a melody of

him; a sonata of

his presence.

Is it that his middle

name was Grey; or that

his sullen quiet nature

is in the pall of

cold and cloudy

mountain skies?

Does the marking –

one more time –

of his death

propose a banging

on the drums of

my remembrance;

the playing of the

O so ancient chords

of the familiar?

How can the muse

weave so rich and

warm a meaning

with

so few and fragile

strands of imagery –

fleeting and just

beyond our reach;

as if growing each

from seed herself.

It is on the premise

of this creative soil

that the muse

can plant, and tend,

and harvest the cotton

and the flax of

our very own cloth

of constitution – a

singularly

crafted self with her

own will to

arrive and begin work

as she like.