I’ve spent time searching for her,
this sprite of writing,
this lady of the lyric-lake,
this siren of synonyms and antonyms,
this paramour of the poets—
                                                    perhaps not for me,
a celibate of syllables and repartee.
She has her seductions:
the hint of light over the Sandias,
the layers of mesa-color,
the one bud that survives the heat of day.
I have met her in the cocktail-lounge
of our common laughter, the final rasps
of departing life, the revelation
of sacrifice (old Father Albert, cancer-
ravaged, admits his ignorance
of my troubles, but says, “I’m fasting
for you today,” and the muse winked.)
Will she visit again?                                 
                                    Perhaps I will see
her skirts flash around a dream-corner,
or her ghost around the edges of my eyes
before I rub away the narrative of the night.
Is the waiting worth it?  Will she deign
to call on me again as I sit with regrets
and resolutions?  Will she still want
to rest a hand on the hand that holds
this pen (or rather, taps this keyboard)
in the sliver of space                                  
                                    between life                                  
                                    and wonder?