By Joseph Hesch
I thought you were my forever muse.
When we were new, odes and heartsongs
flowed from me like exhalations.
And then, despite my obsessions,
or maybe because, you were gone.
Your golden memory faded and
so too the words I once cast
as easily as my shadow.
Just when I thought I’d never
speak to the page again,
the page spoke to me.
It called me, invited me to play,
to discourse on love and nature
and all those people in the world
See, I learned that a muse is a crutch,
an alibi, an excuse for not being
who I am and what I might yet be.
Thanks for that inspiration, at least.