The Muse: Her Presence

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.