Fickle Muse

Stone stubborn, strictly stuck until struck. Then mined like gushing gold, loquacious litter. From hills and dales, from stillness and storm, fickle muse must be courted and coaxed. Trickle muse must be taunted and teased. Tickle fuse must be ignited and conceived. There are times when she goes undetected, times when she is neglected, and times when I hunt her formless hint. In such moments, I can be a child with my first kite. In such moments, I can be fragile fall leaves cascading as their summer luster is fading, as the fall perennials are persuading. There are times when I recoil from her caustic truths, times when her torment lays bare my splinters, my shivering fractured ruin. There are times when she pounces and denounces. Yet, I go on seeking. Perhaps her rich occasional flavors entice. Perhaps her chasmic insights steady me. Why, then, must she hide under shadowy veil? Why must I prospect for her timid topaz? Fickle muse, Perhaps she is just gaming me. Or perhaps she knows the travail of endless trials necessary for my emergence.