What is this shuttered place, devoid
of shadow, reflection. Cloaked from
the blaze that illuminates worlds? 

You’re inside my head. Darkness 
helps me think, create. Owls and cats 
need flashlights here. Who are you? 

I am a literary muse, one who 
inspires, encourages writers to hew 
their visions with word and phrase.

It’s an honor to be visited by a muse.
But you may have come to the wrong
address. I’m a sculptor, not a writer.

You have much in common. Each
is aroused by compelling ideas, 
makes preliminary sketches, renders 
raw material until images emerge.

That’s an interesting comparison. I’m
intrigued but feel like a little kid with
a new bicycle. How do I learn to ride it?

Try composing your thoughts in forms
like haiku. Wield pen and tablet 
as chisel and rasp. Sculpt contours, 
flourishes in language as your medium. 

my pen carves poems  
pliable as clay
or rigid as stone