by UC Poika

    The muse is near
    but she is silent,
    sending no thoughts
    to me for you.
    Like the next storm
    she is coming but
    she is not here yet,
    crouching somewhere
    just out of sight
    like a tomcat
    on a cold winter’s night.
    Though I call and call
    she merely turns
    her head to listen
    comfortable where
    she is and not about
    to change her
    position for anyone.
    Reluctantly then
    I close this work
    having had nothing
    to say, nothing
    to write
    and the black night
    suddenly surrounds her
    until morning when
    I open the door again
    and she comes in,
    scolding me
    for oversleeping.