Today I am leaving for the hill
before the fat air and sweet taunts
of the city stir up the work wasps
into an unstoppable frenzy.
A morning glory muse helps me pack
my bags and I head for a place where
hawks carve up clouds and streams
tangle men in high-waisted boots.
I go to stake my claim like a redwing
at the top of a northern pine screaming
this is my time. Give me something
sacred to see, I will cry, something
bold to bless, fling me screaming
into blue flame, give me something
wild to hold onto.
I will sit still in clover, let small sunsets
of Indian Paintbrush rise around my ankles,
my hands hiding in the folds of my dress.
And when I grow meek from painting
peaks and hayfields on a streak of mauve,
I will laugh into a gust of wind, trick me
into a patch of passion, I will say, shake me
dry like a gourd until my seeds clamor
and crack again, even
if all that's left is dust.
SHAKING UP THE MUSE by Shirl McPhillips | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
