Perhaps it was the way I sat there – hands alert
over laptop keys as birds welcomed in the first morning light –
that finally drove inspiration away.
Tired of my constant attention, I suspect she simply
needed some space. I can almost see her, rounding the corner
on a journey to someplace a bit more exotic.
Perhaps she’s strolling the Champs Elysees
wearing a jaunty beret and sipping espresso
at sidewalk cafes in the noonday haze, a cigarette
teetering wryly between her finger and thumb
as she lazily plumbs the mysteries of Verlaine
and the secrets behind that reticent smile.
Or perhaps she departed for wilder places
where the air is heavy with the scent of gardenia
and the echoes of capuchins bounce overhead
as she hacks with machete through dense jungle floor
to carve out a path that will help her descend
to the temple of wisdom and transcendent light.
But as for me, I’ll stay right here – fingers poised and hands alert –
and watch the steam rise off my coffee as the mama robin
searches the yard for a buried worm to feed to her young.