Does Calliope only play
when I am at windows that cannot open?
When the pane no longer separates

from the

changing emerald sea,
the edges of sunflower fields,
the misted outlines of blue hills,
does she go to earth
hidden beneath a rock of her own choosing,
cupping her words like tender orchid blossoms
in her secretive hands?


since it is me, does she
Curl in a chambered seashell,
her breathing being that delicate sound
one hears when
one puts
it to
one’s ear?

Can she not mingle her muse’s music
with my own enchantment?
must she save her songs
for times when
the windows to my soul are tear-streaked,
and even inner vistas rage with rain?

Yet now, she fools me, feeds me, as is her way.
Now, the words come
despite what I may say
about her silence.
It is of her innate nature, to play.

Photo for January 5, 2012: A Muse’s Hollow

Gilpin County, Colorado.

Quote of the day: “Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are our own fears.”  —  Rudyard Kipling

Daily gratitudes:
A day that felt like spring
The multitude of birds this morning
Horses on the sidewalk in downtown Denver
Folded laundry