Three days away from my pen is a good sign; a sign I’m healing & mending & sewn right up

No duality splitting the seam down the middle; I’m solid

               

Of course there is what is and what is

One is invisible to the eye; is essential

The other every else can see

 

I remember

I know how to be a muse; sweet, familiar territory to me

    I have been the lone gatherer of clues public adoration missed

        I’ve often walked in this scentfilled garden, alone, for that is what is required of a muse

            I’ve drawn the beauty; the love I’ve glimpsed then watched it turn to haze

But I also walk in the fine company of writers & poets & men of the theater; players who write plays

                    and i have seen myself on the page, yes

                        It is a wondrous feeling

       

 

It gets so lonesome in this garden but it is not lonely because they are different

                    And i don’t walk alone even now

                        Not really

 

Because time ultimately spirals there is a chance

            At a glance

    Perchance diagonal; up or down

    To remember what is yet to be

 

It is noble work; to be worthy of words, and I do walk taller today.