A Quiver Of Quills

The muse never hides though feels so distant,
always clothes herself in the clouds and sun,
a thicket of trees, waves of the ocean
and any place
her voice can whisper, “listen to me.”

But it grows silent in our soul at times,
our minds ceasing to sense her song
when the band of life
marches by too loudly,
pounding in our thoughts,
muffling our very heartbeats
until the stroke of her hands
upon the harp in our spirits,
just stops singing such stirring notes.

When we call and think she doesn’t hear,
perhaps it is because
she is speaking where we aren’t looking,
like a zephyr breeze that blows gently over our pores,
so she blows that soft wisp of inspiration.

Pausing in the stillness
until her caresses brings
a quiver of quills,
not a shockwave just a touch,
coming in a simple waft of image,
slowly growing as we let her sway
seep into our fingertips.

It may come as chaos at first,
because we got out of practice,
allowing it to built from a trickle
into a waterfall,
at the pace she creates.

How it will shudder in the joy
once you’ve walked again those steps
she leads by nudges,
where it will change suddenly,
coming when least expected,
yet so worth waiting the moment.