Mused

​

The breakers rage.  Percussion punctuates 
your scratchings on the sand and brings to me
their strings, untied and I begin to see
macrame patterns knotted through the straits.
The poetry you lost, it oscillates
between the peaks and troughs of what will be,
so I shall stand beside this distant sea
to watch the weave.  The thread is with the Fates.
 
There are no sirens; muses never sing,
the sounds we hear are nothing more than air:
just waves.   Not all will resonate.  Not all
will find an ear, but some will rise and ring
through time, if poets dream and poets dare
to listen to the wind.  I hear your call.