Every spring,
the muse returns with energy
to her castle
to open the secret corridors
closed up all winter
– only she knows
the secluded passageways
hidden behind tapestry
beneath growth
between books
In spring she dares to whisper
for winter’s fortress, now melted away
lays her skin’s secrets bare
her privacy tethered in silk
translucent in the light
hair of gold, breast of milk
lips are loose, hips tight
sins of youth, wrongs right
she kisses the mind
and spins her threads
day into night
Categories
The Muse Revisits
The Halfwit Writer 