Before science, someone
had to take the blame.

When Greeks and Romans wore togas,
they decided different godds were responsible
for natural phenomenon, like rain and waves,
olive trees, dawns and sunsets,
and even the rifts between people
and changing seasons.

They also needed epic characters who
they could ask for help when they felt stuck
forming a song or a play or a poem.

Someone divine to plead to when
we sense creative drought and doubt,
when we get out of practice.

Nine Muses offer the solution.
One or two add spice to love letters.
They all still carry the weight of artists and storytellers —
we praise them and we meet them
where they are, which is everywhere,
including the deep woods, the markets,
the campgrounds, the shallow
gossip, the bottom of your pocket,
the missed text, the bleak breaking news.

They lean in as we wash brushes
and work toward our word counts.
They steady the hand that cooks,
that lectures, that mends, that heals.

When we’re crafty, aligned
and questionably lucky,
they nudge us to action
before we have the chance
to sit still.