Looking For My Muse Bolero

music
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a nomad muse, she separates
a poetic moment from the
rest of mundane life,
I hold the muse in my mind,
of when she first appealed to me,

I am so thirsty, where is my
muse Bolero, the one not so
serene, but made of the colors
of The Dream, the one restlessly
back and forth at the easel,
the one who splashes paint the
color of dusty desire across my
canvass, under a gnarled pistachio
tree,

I open her folio of faux dreams of
aqua and terra-cotta, what is my
muse Bolero willing to trade for it,
I have pussy willows and green tea
in thimble cups,

{she paints with one hair...}

The Dream is nurturing the painter
and the poet, where is my muse Bolero,
the one who paints with a single hair,
the one who traces my pubic hair with
a brush with just one hair that makes
her immortal in a studio garden of iris
and sky of gold-leaf, frescoes here and
there, where is my muse Bolero...


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
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