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.