Poetic Muse

My poetic muse is such a fickle thing, One minute hiding, from my probing and penetrating mind. Next leaping up dancing, and singing, and throwing ideas and words and phrases at me so fast that we collide in a heap. We slowly detangle ourselves. He apologizes for keeping me in the dark, but is now ready to create in a serious way. He gently tosses words and ideas at me But they begin to frolic and wrestle, reminding me of puppies at play. How can I make sense out of such a jumble? And yet as they play, a word leaps out of the pile, tumbles into my brain. My brain tosses it about for a while looking for a place to put it when another word and then a phrase join in the fun. My fingers start typing.