My Muse

Could Saturdays ever be about anything more than plucking unwanted hairs, staring at dirt on a floor, and reading prophecies in the shadows of a coffee mug?


I wonder why my Muse only visits on Saturdays…

when I should be sweeping, cooking, appointment-booking
when I could be watching, note-taking, lesson plan-making for a regular Tuesday.

Doesn’t matter where you are.  When she comes, like a visitor in the night, you bow.


She calls it all to dance:

the hairs that are by now gone,
the dirt that has by now accumulated,
the prophecies that are, by now, fulfilled.


Somehow the messy becomes the art and you realize: somehow, you played a part.


Or did you?


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