Minor Muse

She regards the deepening hues with pleasure,

Cheeks alight with the faint rumors of beckoning frost,

Willowy stature uncoiled and bent upon something.

"Sometimes I wake,"

She says, and the privilege of being thus welcomed

Into a thought mid-stream is not lost on me.

I can hear the weight of it on her tongue.

 

"I wake,"

Says she, knotting the dilemma in her brow,

"and I have been somewhere like a forest,

or a meadow,

and something's there."

Eyes darting as one half expecting to catch a glimpse

Of the allusive sprite,

My Minor Muse dims her light,

And something expires on her lips.

"Something's there,

and I almost have it.

And I just can't get it."

With locked gaze,

Bemusement melting her countenance like sadness,

She asks simply,

"What is it?"

And thankful for a ready spark,

I reply with the expediency

Of taking out an umbrella,

"Honey, that's joy."

And as I nervously search the horizon

For the object of her scrutiny

She inflates

As with new hope

And asks,

"Daddy, when's it gonna snow?"