The Whisper of My Muse

Staring at the blank page,
I wait for my muse to whisper in my ear
but all I can hear is silence,
the dripping of melting snow
falling from the roof
and the snores from my cat
lying on the sofa.

I wait patiently for her
while I fetch a cup of coffee.
Perhaps she is just running late this morning,
though to be honest,
she didn’t show up yesterday either.

It is so unlike her to refuse to show up to work,
that I begin to grow a little concerned.

What if something has happened to my muse?

Did I do something to upset her?

I will simply have to have a talk with her.

Walking up to the door of my mind,
I reach for the handle to find it locked.

Locked.

She has locked me out of my own mind.
Doesn’t she know I don’t need keys?
This will barely slow me down.

All I need is imagination.

Closing my eyes, I step through the door
and walk down the hall in search of my muse.

I find her swimming through the room of creativity,
shoving open the door, I demand of her
“Why are you refusing to work today?”

“Who said I am refusing?”

“I need to write a poem. My page is blank.”

“Is it? Sometimes you have to write the poem that is there,
not the one you are searching for. ”
Her whisper wasn’t a poem of nature,
of life’s complicated problems,
nor even a search of deep emotions.

Yet it is a poem that fills my page.
The muse is always right,
even when her whispers are hard to hear
over the dripping of melting snow
falling from the roof
and the snores from my cat
lying on the sofa.

© Michele Markley 2009