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Muse by Charlotte Rahme


The woman’s hair was brittle and grey, as she lay in her quiet bed.

Breathing in the fading day,

Soft, weak, shallow.

She blinked beneath the dimming light,

Calm when I walked in.

Through window’s passage, the sun’s amber glow warmed her wrinkled hands.

I sat tentatively, shy of nearness to age, and strained for her hoarse voice should she whisper her regrets.

In silence we listened, to the bristling trees, the forming stars, the sighing of unearthed bones,

When ready, she passed me a secret as the winds rustled their own.

“When we were young,

my sisters and I pretended

we were muses.”

In her memory, she smiled,

Focused on golden thoughts, her breath began to slow.

Erupting in golden flames, the sun kissed the ground.

Searching for her past, I saw through her eyes’ passage the amber glow began to dim.

I sat, just as still as she, my pen hovering, my grief watering, then left the way that I came in.

For years I captured the gold and amber, the beaming light and stillness,

I paint only her wrinkled hands, her shining smile, and warm blinking eyes -

Canvas after canvas,

In sorrow, in peace, in love,

I play the role of artist, in hopes I may bring a smile to my favourite muse up above.


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