The Muse is a little girl
Tow-headed, boisterous,
hands on her hips,
daring me
to control her, mold her in my image,
to worry about her
as she pulls, then pushes me away.
She jumps into the tattered surf,
fearless,
scrunches her nose
as she looks up at me
with the sun in her eyes.
I feel sentimental fluttering
in my middle-aged belly
as I often retrieve
memories of her
and wonder
where she went.
And then I am reminded
that she is no longer my Muse;
she is her own creation.
She was never really
mine
to begin with.
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