My muse comes with the rain
Sails her great ship on the raging wind
Illuminated by the electric flash
Singing her songs in the low, rumbling thunder
She
tells me of the places she’s been
and the people’s she’s met
and the
words that she spoke and
the whispers
she heard and the time
that she’s spent
and I sit at a desk and I
frantically write
in an old notebook and she
talks and she
talks and she talks and I
write, write, write
until the pitter patter,
drip, drop, drop of
the rain fades away and
the thunder rolls
on and the lightning
snatches her away
And then, for days, I sit and
ponder
On the echo of her voice
Which rings and rings
In my head for a day, a week, a month
And I jot and I scribble and I
scrawl
And fill up pages and pages and pages
With people and lands and whole worlds made of words
And when I run out I sigh and I
stare out the window
and wait for the rain.