The Artist’s Muse
He stands there, hands pressed to his face,
As if I’ve failed to hold his grace.
He mutters, sighs, then turns away—
Another brush, another day.
But I am here, beneath the glare,
A patch of sky, a breath of air.
I’ve caught his doubt, his silent plea,
And wait for him to truly see.
For I’m not wrong, just not yet right
A dream half-formed, a stolen light.
So let him pace, and let him frown
I’ll bloom again when he calms down.
by Rod Ellis