Morning Muse

She moves like smoke swirling around logs

There’s a muse
who moves quietly
through the minutes 
of the hours
between 2 and 4 
most mornings.

Kiss of the Muse (also called Dream of the Poet), Paul Cezanne, 1859-1860

A gauzy white slip
drapes and flows
over her naked skin, 
long thin fingers 
form mudras as her 
slender feet and toes 
purposefully land each step 
before she takes the next.

Her movements 
are calculated,
smooth and slow 
like smoke swirling and wrapping
around logs in a fireplace 
before new flames 
fully ignite
and glow.

She quickens 
her pace, lengthening 
her stride and extending 
her arms, one in each direction,
then turns her head backwards.
Is someone faintly 
calling her name?

She runs the fingers
of her left hand
through the wavey strands 
of hair covering the side of her face,
pushing it back so she can see.

She blinks,
raises her gaze and reaches
her left hand straight back,
palm up, inviting someone 
to take her fingers 
and join her. 

Then she’s gone.