Joy of the Muse

JOY OF THE MUSE

I am struck by the gift of muse once again.
Like a waterfall,
it avalanches
down my
very essence
to the tune
of a thundering roar.

I grab my pen to catch each treasured moment
before it goes.
It comes so fast -
the images,
the word pictures,
Cascading like a cataract
clear and pure
from the very heights.

Deep and quick my breathing comes.
My emotions set free to careen up my spine
in waves of electric energy.
Quick to catch it all, I write the poem
About a mountain climber,
Who all alone has slipped to lay
on jagged rock below
to die unfound.

And as he lies to watch the vultures soar above,
I feel his pain
Until he lifts himself free
from fragile carcass in a sigh,
Then I, too, with eyes of tears
Lift up my face
to know the moment of soaring
- The joy of the muse.