Writing is something that calls to me, gentle as a summer rain, the constant pitter-patter of mindfulness.
“Come sit with me,” she calls, desperate for my attention.
As alluring as the smell of fresh bread, she beckons.
“What shall I write?” I ask
Words begin their tribal dance, waiting for the their rhythm to become constant, a settling of time.
If the mind becomes too engage, off she saunters, refusing to rest
“Quiet,” I think to myself, “Don’t reach, like a cat, she comes on her own.”
So together we sit, my Muse and me, waiting for the melody to arrive.