My Muse
By John Herlihy

My muse comes to me in the middle of the night,
Carrying with her tablets that give me no fright.
The tablets are empty but brimming with light,
Waiting to be filled up with her wise insight.

Without a whisper or a whim an idea takes hold,
The words appear on the tablet never before told.
The muse silent, breathless, stirring me to be bold,
With the words written, they are precious to hold.

The nights are random when she comes in full array;
She arrives unannounced, but I encourage her to stay.
It is her choice, not mine, that is basically her way;
The poems belong solely to her, I have nothing to say.

She waited many years before she decided to come;
One winter night as snow fell under a midnight sun.
I was weaving webs of stories trying to have some fun,
When her body of light appeared, I simply wanted to run.

I stake no true claim for this unexpected gift of words;
Without her help, I would only produce mouse turds.
With her help, I have cultivated a garden of rare herbs,
A garden filled with greenery and multi-colored birds.

When the muse takes her leave as I know one day she will,
She will remain forever in my heart as an image on a hill.
I will speak of the lady who came with a feathered quill,
Whispering sweet dreams into my ear no one else could fill.