So the Muse gets these offerings as I barter--please, come back to me--please, don't go away. The moon is filling out and winter is over. How can you leave me now when the world is this lush and this lovely? But, she is a fickle, fickle girl...she bends her willowy limbs away from me and walks off. Maybe it's the season's fault. Who can think with this much pollen in the air? Flowers gasp for reproduction. There's no conversation, no bottles of red table wine...golden dust on every still surface, Mother Nature is ready.
Why would she want to be splayed open across the page like this? Am I pushing too hard? Right now, it feels as if my pen is pressing against her thin throat. I may be drawing blood, even...but she casts her eyes out the window and counts--line by line--the words, until she can be free of me...until she runs barefoot through thin parcels of grass, napping beneath oak trees, nibbling dandelions and fresh greens.
I have been mulching flowerbeds and raking winter out from under bushes. I have cut grasses back and pruned hedges until my fingers sprouted blisters. I've trimmed dandelions, pulled other weeds, swept the dust of a half dozen months from our outdoor surfaces. I've planted strawberries and sunflower seeds. I'm flirting with my muse...trying to get writing all the way again...but, she just hikes up her white skirts and flashes her bare ass...running, running away.