“the muse of poetry”

She steps between the shadow and the page,  
A glimmer spun from rain and morning’s dew,  
Her footsteps light—a dancer on a stage  
Where silence waits to sculpt a word or two.  

She wears no crown, yet laurel leaves entwine  
Her hair, wild as an April afternoon;  
Her eyes are distant, storming, half-divine,  
They flicker with the riddle of the moon.  

She whispers rivers, forests, city streets,  
A hundred voices carried on her breeze;  
In every hope that springs, in heartbreak’s beats,  
She offers lines as sweet as honeybees.  

And when I dream I hold her once again,  
Ideas bloom: the world becomes my pen.

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