The Muse is usually a she
according to art history.
More than once I’ve
served in that capacity.
I’ve also known it as a he
a love, an ardent kind
of sustenance, a boon
to heart and mind.
In the end I think
it is a voice inside
wherever the best
part of me abides.
It is ancient, bardic,
will not be cajoled
or come when called
or do as it is told.
“Do the work,” it says,
“and leave the door ajar.
Do not worry.
I know where you are.”
.
.
THE MUSE
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