.
.
Sometimes, my words won’t come,
no matter what I try to write.
I softly call upon my muse,
entreat her
to come to me this night.
I feel her warmth within the room
I’m instantly at ease.
I sense her reading my scribbled words,
she knows my thoughts
and hears my longing pleas.
I feel her delicate fingers
upon my clumsy hand;
her words and phrases flood my mind,
things I’ve never seen before
from some far distant land.
I don’t know where she comes from,
(maybe, from above)
where ever it is
that she calls home,
she comes to me with love.
.
Dennis Cardiff: Poems and Prose 
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