Things are rather busy here today so I’m just going to drop this here and run. Today’s poem took shape because I had just glanced over at a book on my shelf and wondered who the author’s muse could have been. Voilá! A poem was born.
Happy Monday everyone.
By Jessica Scott
I wonder if Hemingway knew his Muse.
Did he really know how he came to be inspired to write at all?
Was it an embrace,
A tap on the shoulder,
A soft caress?
He was born with the glorious, burdensome gift of talent-
But Prometheus gave him the fire.