Muse Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

I heard a whisper soft as stone
that echoed like a belfry bell
whose earthy sound and dulcet tone
cast me under its dreamy spell.
I stood beneath its haunting light,
felt the pull of its burning strings,
and knew there'd be no sleep that night
on the back of her airy wings.

I posed with pen upon the page,
waited for words that would not write
and set them free of gilded cage
as birds aboard their maiden flight.
Whispers echoed in evergreen.
Stars encircled a sleepy moon.
The muse was sweet, of gentle mien,
and as prophetic as a rune.

This iridescent dialogue
captured starlight within a bowl
and cleared away the banks of fog
that mystified my tender soul.
The clouds parted across the sky.
Wisteria cones filled the air.
The matchstick of a lone firefly
turned into thousands, everywhere.

Pine trees stood in dark silhouette.
Katydids and peepers intoned.
A hot summer night's tete-a-tete
was born and forever enthroned.
I watched the lamplight turn to dawn.
A white sheet breathed with ink in veins.
My muse cartwheeled across the lawn,
and her gift is all that remains.

One cannot ignore the dusts of time
nor the needle threaded with light,
the seeds that bloom in proper clime
nor the wings of mystical flight.
The weight of the world is a door,
an exit that none can refuse.
Look not once but again and more
with open eyes to see the muse.