This muse, she is not done with me yet.
This is not her only form, she is everywhere, reaching for me,
I thought I knew her, I was wrong. I know that she is me, and I am her.
But the depths she reaches out of.
But the heights she descends from.
But the magnificence of this beauty, of this beast.
When I do not believe, she is lost to me. When I do not trust, I am blind.
The truth is that she always believes in me.
That her patience is fierce, and knowing. Her trust- calm and steady.
And now she arrives again on the first day of Autumn shimmering in the breeze of afternoon sun.
All she says today is… “create.”