Honeyed rays slice drifting clouds.
Mirrored cranes lift praise.
She is random she is free and uncontrolled by time and space. The clock shatters when she appears.
She is the Muse, a butterfly offering on-again, off-again glimpses of light to those open to her inspiration. Try and catch her, but not with the nets of over-thinking. If I take a walk, ride my bike, she might return.
If I try too hard, she disappears. A muse, after all, is not a truffle to be rooted out from the earth by pigs and served up at the dinner table for $200 a pop.
In our time-starved world she is free to visit wherever, whenever and whomever she wants. Are you a Mother longing for time to write? Listen for her whispers even though you yourself may feel like a babe alone in the woods. Or you may actually be in the woods, walking a shoreline, standing in line at a subway station, at the check-out buying groceries.
It doesn’t matter where or when or how she shows up. Maybe you like to write at cafes in the early morning and you are halfway through your double Americano when an image, a sentence creeps in.
She shows up Anytime. Dawn, noon, dusk, midnight.
Is she fairy, is she mist?
All I know is that if I stay in the Now, silent in my head, hopeful in my heart, I might feel inspired. I have a notebook handy, a tape recorder. Whatever I am doing she just might show up.