What the Muses Leave Behind

The dream wakes, wakes and shuffles down the stairs- pours a cup of Joe. Sugar stirs up a silly tune- sings hey now, my girlfriend's back . Upstairs, smelling the coffee dreamer shakes her head, finds an echo to the walls - my, my, my my girlfriend's back . Dream to dreamer, where’s the cream? Dreamer drifts on wobbly knees, follows the aubade's aroma. Dream to dreamer, let’s rise ready - let’s be ocean and sky. Let’s be aroma, let’s be song, A chrysalis of sweet déjà vu.  Dream to dreamer, let’s quit the queue, let’s be the quest.  Dreamer wants to follow cosmonauts, lifting white arms, smelling of Stoli's; she banks with the morning star, waves as dream shuffles on, sipping java. 

We grow famished with duty, hold a boney line. Do the right thing.  Say the right word. Live the right moment. Here we go, combing days for purpose, an army of sea urchins.  Swooning for octopus, supple and keen this one – could we be that?  Could we trellis darkness with ink trails like the one you climb now, word by word? Can duty sing beauty like catgut on wood? Can it upholster days in both silk and sacking? Make Tuesday a rich brocade. Wednesday, corduroy, Thursday, Friday, Saturday tatted Chantilly lace. Sunday and Monday matted felt. It’s a Gordian puzzle – and how did it happen? A march for Maslow’s dream – our bruises the crown and scepter, climbing, climbing and where would we be? Not Avalon nor Shangri-La, not nirvana nor Eden, crawling to another frontier – a fresh start. Out of sticks and stones and mended bones, we light another fire. And this Kevlar vest, we unbutton it – notion by stoic notion. right vie...

Define the word – besotted. They promised next year, the Year of the snake, to be agile and open. They promised to relax, cheek to shoulder, adrift the San Juan . On desert currents, breath weaving breath, they would become an oasis; island of reed and pitch. There! Sage wears fists of turquoise: one for patience, one for hope. The jungle is everywhere and she frets about forgetting this moment. Forgetting is like a fox chasing chickens - dreamers scatter. Cedar chases frontier along granite walls, expects to feel embarrassed; already love has stripped them down.

Someone has to greet Sirius and Saturn has to gape at the motley gang at daybreak,  the gaudy stains of salmon, periwinkle, fuchsia, tangerine. Welcome the wind and rain. Someone has to disturb the morning peace has to trigger a bugle call: rooster, guinea,  the brace of faithful beagles that push  their prattle into the thin air. Begin the daily rabble. Someone has to wake before the calendar and clock,             has to, for a few precious steps, shadow eternity             soon enough NPR and CNN beckon,                             thar she blows, they wail.                          Here we go, I say.

Banshee in the headlights, sleek quiver of points bristle - Fly little arrows fly! There is no kindness, in this moment only broken hearts. No one should find such such a day. Grendel in the headlights the growling ache of Saint Lucy. Her bright party sinks with a mired night and stars ring the winter sky. Ashes turn to dust,  we all fall down. Cherubs in the headlights lifting on frozen beams. No time to say goodbye, no way to accept surrender, our most precious forever, and  we could only promise to be brave.    

Be at home in the heart, who cares what extends beyond your brittle hide. Home gives space for light, lets it feather the soft unformed. Be at home with the hunger, who cares that we tremble. Home makes room for mercy, lets it cushion the sharpest edge. When you go follow warmth, the ochre, the golden rod, each umber and ecru, the endless green, the lavender and rust. These signal our songs and bring clues for what twines the plucky hours of July with November. Be at home for the peace, join its long name: Grasshopper Phoebe Rosemary Mother's milk Alabaster First light Gibbous Moon Waterfall Morning fog Lemon balm Black dog Red tide Oak pollen Boney night Dandelion

Crowing glory glory, we expected to float back all together, even raced to be first to ford the asteroid riffle. Like children reaching in glee fingers and arms wide as rice paddies, we embraced the flood of song pouring in like stardust off the tongues of dancing galaxies- but we lost Pluto – even before the chorus began; before we could ask IAU to reconsider what makes a planet; before we could implore 134340  to bring its moon home, to convince it  that turning in a slow whirl like a dervish around the sun is better than flying wild with legs clutching an icy braid of comet tails. But they don't hear us, they're already three billion miles gone and outside we notice the stars have never been so bright.