The Bird and the Muse

A change has come – 
fluttering like an injured bird
to perch upon my shoulder.
And in this change 
she is the poet
and I am the muse.
she is the hunter
and I am the prey.

She is not as strong as she seems;
she is not the epitome of perfection.
She has her own peculiarities
insecurities
vulnerabilities.
She is not the goddess
I have made her out to be.

The bird, which is wisdom
Sitting on my shoulder
Was not as injured as it seemed.
It merely fluttered there
for a while
and then took off –
leaving me with the knowledge
that I no longer see her as untouchable.

I am changed –
and feathered by the thought
that I can touch her now.
Wisdom was a bird once
fluttering above a man
who looked beyond the beauty
and found an inexhaustible supply
of loveliness.

I have tried for years
to capture that bird
but, alas, have failed miserably.
The bird shall not be caught -
it shall only flutter to me
every now and then – 
and if I am to be a Wiseman
I shall touch her gently
and let her wings
brush against me cheek.

She came fluttering again
but I saw her differently than before;
no capturing;
no goddess;
no poet;
no muse;
Just a bird
and I am of the same feather.


Neil S. Davies