Today, after my 10K cemetery run,



instead of sitting and pondering the scenery and letting the muse take hold of me, I have decided to take hold of her. I’m taking her in my arms, settling down into the tranquil clover,



and we’re staring out into the autumn sky blue imagining the constellations we’d be beholding were it nighttime.



And, oh yes, for this date with my muse, I’ve not brought the standard fare of cheap American draft, but rather a renowned English stout…



What more can I say than that the lady elicits class ?!

Quite the angel is this muse of mine.



And the way she tickles my ear when she whispers words is a pleasure oh so fine. Yet, just when I’m prepared for the ultimate dalliance, the wind whisps and whips, and aflight, she’s away with the breeze. Ah! If only my passions could ease so effortlessly.

But I’m a patient man and shall wait, if necessary, for a heartbeat short of eternity for the return of my muse with her inspirations. Or, if mortally blessed I am, merely until that day when my truest love, for whom the muse was fancifully standing-in for silly-grin foreplay, shall verily be mine.