Muse

This is what you are to me:

You teach me to look at the sunset.
You teach me to listen to the laughter of children.
You teach me to savor the taste of chlorophyll.
You teach me to feel the needle break my skin.
You teach me to inhale the lingering aroma of mown wheat.

I see you in the crystal blue dewdrops on a single blade of green grass.
I see you in the psychedelic sunset of magenta, purple, yellow, red, and blue.
I see you in the movement of clouds as they billow in the summer sky before the thunderstorm.
I see you in the grey cataract eyes of an old, old man.
I see you in the infinite edges along every grain of sand.

I hear you in the roar of the Niagara, as it freefalls endlessly downward.
I hear you in the distant rhythms of Hatian voodoo drums at midnight.
I hear you in the solitary croak of the first spring toad, late at night in February.
I hear you in the clink of spoon on ceramic at a table for one in an empty cafe.
I hear you in the silent loud of underwater.

I taste you in the nectar from the honeysuckle flower, pulled out in a single drop on my tongue.
I taste you in the blood that drips from the inside of my busted lip.
I taste you in the crusted leavings from the side of my grandmother's iron skillet.
I taste you in cream and sugar and chocolate and caramel and raspberries and hazelnuts and coffee.
I taste you in the water when I dunk my face in the river and drink.

I feel you in the softness of my mother's face.
I feel you in the sand that sucks my feet downward as I walk barefoot through Illinois streams.
I feel you in the icy wind that blows snow beneath my winter doorsill.
I feel you in the fire of burning logs that warms my feet in late October.
I feel you in the crush of thumb by hammer and the comfort of mouth and tongue.

I smell you in the springtime damp that wafts through the evening breeze.
I smell you in the lakeside rot of fish and frog and moss on a July camping trip.
I smell you in the sterile sheets of a hospital bed when I lie down with no hope to recover.
I smell you in dirt my father plowed up from beneath the grass to plant tomatoes in the ground.
I smell you in the memory I have of you when you handed me your heart.

You teach me to look.
You teach me to listen.
You teach me to taste.
You teach me to touch.
You teach me to inhale,

Hard and long.