An artist must have her Muse.

My words must paint you

near me.

We are intended to share

Communion.

Do you know this too —

in the part of you that hears

my voice?

Breaking whisper in waves —

we are already having

A conversation

in another rippling realm

where God is dreaming.

We met before

mere mortals

in long ago years

wearing other faces . . .

Will you stand near me,

toes crunched into sand,

as twilight escapes from blue night?

Stand — Still — At the space of breathing.

Be my Muse until God wakes,

the ocean rocks and shifts,

light breaks into a fresh morning.

Then — We can — Return

to the white hushed silence.

After the joining

I will lay my brushes down

and put the painting pen away.

But, first, valiant Muse

I desire communion.