MY MUSE

WHEN I MET MY MUSE by William Stafford.

I glanced at her and took my glasses off-they were still singing. They buzzed like a locust on the coffee table and then ceased. Her voice belled forth and the sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch and, and knew the nails up there took a new grip on whatever they touched. “I am your own way of looking at things,” she said. “When you allow me to live with you, every glance at the world around you will be a sort of salvation.” And I took her hand.