Breath of God

I feel poetry stirring,
delicate white feathers with a gentle touch of
lavender on their tips.

Sweetly soft music plays, colors swirl...

Then my son flings an entire ream of paper into the air.
he laughs and twirls and scatters it across the floor.
twirls, lies his entire body in the papers,
eats a quick snack.

This has happened before.

My delicate feathered Muse
flits, hummingbird like, away in horror;
she is not a "kid person." Decidedly not.

My daughter wants to sit on my lap.
Begs for a mama snuggle,
asks me to draw her a pumpkin.

The Muse locks her door, refuses to come out.
Renews her resolve to never marry, have children.
Shakes her head and purses her lips at my ineptitude as a rule-maker.

I know that there are people out there with hardier inspirators
that roll up their sleeves and write Nobel-winning books
with children on their laps.

I know that it only takes time
and energy and
perhaps
a good set of earplugs.

But for the life of me, I can only coax my Muse out to write poems
about writing poetry and
this
moment
of simply not wanting to clean up a floor full of empty
white
paper.

KAW Oct 09