The Muse: Her Presence Poem by Daniel Brick

This morning, in the gray light
of early winter, I was promised
a poem. 'It's waiting for you, '
she said softly. 'Look for it
in familiar places near home.
Not that distant home of your origins,
but the one close by, that has served
you so well, in these years if endeavor. And-'
And she had departed, in the middle of
a thought. It's almost a routine by now:
she is summoned by another poet, perhaps
like myself, perhaps not. I don't know -
How many poets does she attend? How does
she determine her visitations? Does she
check names - This is useless and unworthy.
I'm acting like a cast-off lover, a jealous
one, a hurt one... I will soon fulfill
this morning's promise: the poem, already
half written, lies face-down on the table.
What else is there to consider. Oh, yes,
it is the lingering scent of her presence.