Dear Muse,

You stand there, elegant as Butterfly Woman,

a halo of white lilies in your pale,  gossamer locks.

Skirts of aubergine and amber synonyms swirl

in the breeze of lip licking meter.

You stir the cauldron of dictionaries, words

that never touch my ears.  I see you

toss in the rosemary of metaphor, a pinch

of saucy simile, a waft of allegory,

followed by a taste of alliteration.

You lift a wooden ladle to your lips.

A fleeting frown.    Deep in your apron

pocket, you call forth the nutmeg

of language, a foreign word, a bliss

of chocolate rhyme.   Your ephemeral

cookbook shimmers with the suggestion

of couplet. You dribble a hint of haiku,

three drops of rhythm,  a twinkle of sonnet,

a repetition of villanelle, a glossary

of mouth-watering Anglo Saxon,

a sprinkle of anonymous antonyms,

a smidge of stardust.

You peer through the amber vial

of Latin and allow three drops to fall.

Bring to a boil, simmer and chuckle.

Then your purple, velvet pointed pumps,

dainty on my window sill, waken

me to the breath of the unexpected.

I remain your faithful servant.

~C.J. Prince

©2015