Her Muse Has Died - Ronda Miller

Her Muse Has Died
In remembrance - Dima (By Ronda Miller--a dear friend of mine)

Her muse has died.
Still, the snow flies
and the wind whistles
through the trees.
Buds push upwards
towards light.
Backs of heads turn as faces
of human and flower alike
follow movement of the sun.
Her muse has died.
Earth revolves on its axis,
the ground splits open
during droughts.
Fire ants harvest delights
to present their queen.
Shrill cicadas burst forth,
impossible to silence,
their sounds deafening.
Newly birthed lime green bodies climb through seams that once held them tight.
Beige shells, left gaping and alone, clutch in death's grip
on surfaces such as trees or
undersides of decks,
barely making
it above ground before abandoned.
For all the protection
once provided, now so
light to hold in hands
large or small.
One swift movement
transforms into crumpled
remains blown
by the slightest breeze
or even the breath of a child.
Her muse has died.
Tears flood her face,
washing it anew each
morning and night
where time fells the aloneness deep inside her chest.
She cannot help but wonder how she could be left alive through such pain.
Still, wheat rustles
in its sheath, never alone,
crowded upon the stem
so green, now astonishing
in the golden
splendor of the sun and moon.
Dew descends like a jewel
into the darkness of the night, reflecting the slightest of light so all with vision
view the twinkling.
A tiny universe of starlight
among the blades of grass.
Her muse has died,
but nature echoes back.


I've posted poems by Ronda before. I love this one.