Bearer of the Wine
Into my mind, a muse is wont to slip.
Capriciously she comes to visit me.
She brings exotic wine that I might sip.
I then reanimate with poetry.
She glides on tiny noiseless slippered feet
to catch me unaware by night or day,
and swiftly I imbibe her liquid sweet,
for never do I know how long she’ll stay!
Too well I know before I’ve had my fill,
the drink shall be withdrawn. She’ll leave my head,
and when she’s fled, my brain grows cold and still.
I clutch the verses left me in her stead.
Forevermore, I pray, may I be graced
by her who bears the wine I long to taste.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012
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