The Muse

The Muse I met her by pure happenstance, long ago now, Back in some time when she was still a stranger, And yet somehow, seemed not a stranger at all. But slowly, in time, as seasons passed to seasons, We peeled back layer after layer, one to the other, Unraveling small mysteries of our separate paths. But how far do you go on with a life not your own, And what to tell of each potholed and twisting road, So many pieces to fit, so many past decades to fill in. But the book and story of life must always be renewed. So, we write our book, line by line, chapter by chapter, Stepping over and over again to some unknown place, Knowing that for every step, we are always unfinished. But we let every new curiosity rise and fall between us, Finding the surface, then disappearing against clear sky, Exposed ever so briefly, real as can be, but not real too, Always delving, our words finding water in deep roots, And life is written, over days, and seasons, and all of time.