Muse, Refused

For just a moment
I could imagine it–
Something there
That wasn’t.

Now I hum along,
And don’t want to hear
These words collected for me.

Haphazard they slide
Across the divide,
She wants me to listen.
But I am not listening.

And in this refusal,
Alone or joined–
And phrases uttered–

Fall from heights
Of hymn or hidden message
To become mere penstrokes
And rain whispered against new leaves.

Her missives are the medicine
Scratched from the bone-dry riverbed.
My rusty bones
Need those healing hands.

But not ready to deconstruct
The angry dream-village,
I let the river take them elsewhere.
And I cannot hear her now.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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