My Muse visited me last night

Gliding ephemeral on a filmy shroud

Of fireflies and quiet light,

Her bosom a secret wanting

Prayer that begs for transgression.

I offered her a simple country dinner

But she would not eat.

Enamored and bashful as I was

I gave her dark wine to drink but

She only touched the glass to her lips and smiled.

As my heart melted in thoughts of precious perfect Love,

I wrote more furious than Wagner killing Isolde

In a crescendo of lush lost Hope.

“Write more and better,” was all she said

Betraying no emotion except for that damned smile.

When my Muse left me I fell exhausted on the floor,

Papers floating ethereally—heavy with meaning.

My cat was licking my eyebrows

So that I would give her a simple rustic dinner

And perhaps a glass of rich dark wine.