The Muse may speak in Flowers 🌺

Dear Ones, This Sunday - paint flowers with me and the Muses. A daylong paint and sip in Sonoma and virtually. No experience needed - really. Just come. You will have so much fun - there is still time to get cake and rose’ or sparkle water and brushes and a canvas a big as you choose. ~ Shiloh Sophia

The Muse May Speak in Flowers

My muse usually shows up

in leather, lace, and feathers

with rhinestone sunglasses,

glinting in cowgirl boots with gold wings.

This is how I've come to know her

since she made her company available to me.

The first time she spoke to me,

her language was red-winged blackbird,

and pomegranate seeds

the color of moon blood on white sheet red.

She didn't come with platitudes.

She came with instructions and keys.

Oh, so many keys to so many doors

I know nothing about.

And she only occasionally

allows me to try one to fit in the lock. S

he doesn't let me try if I am good.

She only offers them if I am willing to be bad.

Not bad as in bad versus good, but bad as in badass.

Because my Muse is a badass.

Yours is too, most likely.

She won't offer us her gifts if we stay safe.

She always wants a bigger canvas.

She always wants a bigger brush.

She always wants too much water.

Because she told me sometimes size does matter

and it would be much better if I painted naked and barefoot.

She walks me to my edge and then tips me over

Into that muse place where all the colors bend

and come alive in me.

The place where I remember

who I was before

all of this heart-breaking open stuff of life.

Today, she showed up differently.

I haven't seen her quite like this before.

She tempted me with an old lure, lightning for breakfast.

But then she added soft, full-hipped orgasms i

n the sunny afternoon,

the ones that start at the top of your head

and shimmy down to the tips of your red toes.

Today, she brought me pain à chocolat.

A chocolate croissant from Paris

where she dreams me alive.

You see, I was there for weeks a

nd now every dream I have

is taking place in the streets of Paris

where we're all having Tea with the Muse.

You see, I haven't been feeling so well.

You see, this life has been too busy for me.

But it's not her who abandons me.

It's me. Who abandons me.

Then I can't hear her voice so clearly.

The tones, they are muffled. T

he colors, they are muted.

And the riddle is that I cannot hear her

if I abandon myself.

I cannot hear her speaking in sunflowers speak.

For a minute, just a minute, I resisted. I protested.

Haven't you seen what is happening in the world?

Isn't having Tea with the Muse a frivolity?

She rolled her giant eyes, of course,

and as she did, I swear dragonflies flew all around her,

their wings glistening. Where had they been hiding?

Then I started to court her.

I courted her when the stars

still shone on the waters.

I sat in the deep well waiting and looking

until the sun shone on my freckled shoulders.

When I saw her, of course, I was dazzled.

She flirted with black-eyed Susans on her nipples,

a star jasmine crown of white, oh, the scent of her,

coral-colored roses blooming around her hips,

a peony at her vulva, pink with magenta strokes.

In her hand, she carried ripe peaches

from the tree just right there,

and the first pears of the season.

There was a long train of geraniums

trailing behind her of every color.

Hummingbirds hovered around her head

and the bees, I could hear them singing

as she approached and pulled me

from the water and that was when

the ravens began to sing and cluck.

She took my hand and in my hands

the seeds of foreign flowers flowed,

perhaps flowers from France.

She told me that flowers are the language of poetry

and that I better get used to

hydrangeas that speak in periwinkle

and gladiolas that hum in yellow

and rhododendrons that talk too much.

She warned me:

Get your ass to the canvas or else, biatch.

I know she threatens when I'm in danger

of losing some deeper sense of self.

It's just been slipping between the cracks. Or I have been slipping through them.

So here I sit, having this Tea with the Muse,

feeling the fog depart and the numbing soften.

Her hands are on my hands now,

clicking and clacking as I attempt to tell you

about a visitation from La Muse

and I invite you to call upon your own.

Hint: She may speak in flowers or ravens or dragonflies.

Do not take this visit lightly.

Take it from me that without her the well dries up,

the colors fade and the belly clenches

and the heart moans of longing.

The Muse She isn't always right on time.

You can't just expect her. She has her own timing.

I feel like today I got really lucky.

As she took her leave,

I could swear I saw Dogwood

from last season dancing around her wake.

She looked back, winking, her job well done,

and I began to laugh.

And now to the page.

And now to the dance floor.

And now to the canvas.

Today I shall wear the pink dress

and go barefoot, hot pink lip gloss,

and I too will be winking right at you.

Shiloh Sophia

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