There is no place for grief, wrote Sappho, in a house that serves the muse. Muses, said Stephen King, are ghosts, sometimes uninvited.

My muse is invited, she sits by the window a few feet from where I write, and whenever I write, I put my fingers to my lips and transfer the kiss to her beautiful face. When I first got her, and was very much frightened and alone, I think I fell in love with her. I know this will sound strange, but she talks to me in her own way. Believe me, sometimes she is smiling, when I have a good idea, when I am expressing it well.

Sometimes, she looks stern, or distracted. But she has been with me a long time, and I am still writing, and that speaks to her power and presence.

Today, she is smiling, and I can see her smile through the flowers. Can you? She is my lover in a way, my writing lover, our love is spiritual and intense and internal. I talk to her often. And sometimes she smiles.

Once, I read her from a poem by Heather Alexander, it is my muse song.

“I shall be thy lover…

I am a creature of the Fey,

Prepare to give your soul away

My spell is passion and it is art

My song can blind a human heart

And if you chance to know my face

My hold shall be your last embrace.”