The muse lives in her evil garden
a muse in exile. An enigma.
A lover comes to her meticulously slow
the hunger excruciating.
She can not ask but it is known
that her soul was born in his
shallow breath. A paradox.
The muse lives in her evil garden
ploughed and hoed with tears painfully planted.
Each time she thinks of him the crocus
gets bathed in rain. A dove coos.
She is nestled in this garden of fragrant
honeysuckles that court the soon to be
night's dwindling light, shimmering naked.
The muse lives in the evil garden
of her own making aware of the rivets
up her spine and the kiss that will renew.
He inhabits her like the golden sun's rays
on the ash-trees' bark.
D. Claudia Ash
November 2002
Posted by poetry/muse6165
at 9:33 PM EST
Updated: Saturday, 03/26/2005 10:22 PM EST
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Updated: Saturday, 03/26/2005 10:22 PM EST
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