Friday, May 1, 2020

Muse Descending

Muse Descending ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2020

In the midst of this malaise,
the muse descended,
as quiet as a baby’s breath.

Listen; are those falling leaves
or tiny wings.

The muse comes,
not in grand gown,
but at odd hour,
with shoulder wrapped
and whispering.

She touches down lightly,
sprinkling gold dust,
stardust, rust,
and we are waiting here,
with arms open,
or eyes closed,
and still she comes,
as she is.

This always was;
always will be.

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