I can't see the muse, but I feel her pushing like the wind's hand on the small of my back, saying, "Here, step through this way," but it's just a suggestion, not a command.
When I can't see her, I look for the turtles on the logs, sunning, implacable and shining, necks stretched out long for the warmth of a sun that gives, but asks nothing.
When I can't feel her, there's an ache at the back of my throat – no, it's behind my heart or belly - I can't tell for sure, but the wind and sun aren't there at all and I'm a muddy wodge, dried up and cracking.
When I can't sense her, everything smells like an old dog's bed, each room too dark, all surfaces fusty with windows closed.
When I can't find her, I turn round and round, displaced and too fleshy, hoping for the hand of a turtle breeze and a drop – just one - of a fresh anything.