I once was a mother to many,
I brought the tattered few to my bosom to cradle their
insecurities against the shield of my own.
Spiritual paramours ran to the shade of my room, my roof-top
boudoir to seek solace from the world.
I laid at their feet in love, infusions of grace and banquets
of peace,
My tender arms and temperate words guided their fettered
minds back to the point of rest.
My reassurance of talents brought a regained strength to
carry on with tasks unseen in youthful endeavors.
I was the muse, the gentle breath of inspiration, the push
to go farther, deeper, to try more.
My words on air, in writing, and whispered across pillow
tops shattered timidity;
Rock stars took stage, poets lifted the pen and artists dirtied
their hands with new life.
Now, the breath has carried some far and wide, to stretches
of the world unseen by me -
The muse is not the
artist herself, merely the vessel to birth the craft.
Some remember the gift and return it with considerations and
affirmations of time spent together.
Some deny my existence.
Like Judas to Christ,
my love is a fog evaporated in spells of reluctance and alarm.
Some attempt to return to the nest, scared to take flight on
the airstream of existence, hiding in caves of false ingenuity, disguised as
freedom.
The muse, squelched in the rigors of life reminisces in the sheltered
moonlight, saturated in my own love for my child and companion.
I know the journey is never over but I wonder what it will
bring to me.
