My muse doesn’t speak to me in words. She is there in the movement in my heart. She is in the rustle of the leaves and the sound of the rain. She is there in the spark of life in every being. I can see her. She is easy to ignore. Because she doesn’t shout  to me to STOP, I often forget she’s there. But she is not weak, just patient. She shows me what she wants me to see when I my mind is quiet, even for a moment. When I remember to expect her, she is there in mind’s eye, waiting with her gifts.

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