My Muse

My muse is the sound inside

my own head, voices no one else

can hear, unless I open the door

and let the music out

.

My muse is the perfect pen, the

perfect pencil — all heft and

hue — the feel of the thing,

as if it must be allowed to shout.

My muse can be somber, it can

even be sorrow, but usually

all it wants to do is laugh,

let go its grief and blow out all its doubts.

It could be the look in your eye,

the tilt of your head, what you said

when you looked down to see

what was on your shoe.

It could be yellow,

some silly shade of green,

I’ve even seen it blue in the sky

above the head of a cow that mooed.

It could be us on a bus

when the thing breaks down,

or on a boat in a churning sea.

It’s here

It’s there

It’s everywhere.

It’s me.

© Jackie Roberts 2/11/2021