It’s a jade branch on the floor, broken in two, love,
or a stain raised on the lapped grains of a suede glove.

It’s the lace, blown by a strong breeze, of an old gown
with the cranes crying at night, lost in their long sound.

It’s a vase made from the noon light in a closed place,
and it falls, shatters the sharp edge of a jewel case.

It’s the Muse, mute with a shell clenched in her left hand,
a refrain deep in its coils, joined to the dead sand.

By ace101

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7 replies on “Muse~”

The muse comes dressed in different outfits, but brings with her the inspiration of those who look at her with eyes where only they can see her.
We are synchronized, at least, in the title of the poem. I am going to publish a poem with the title: “My Muse” but the context is different. The Latino goes more on the romantic side. From human contact.
I really liked your poem. It’s excellent.

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