Last night, I lay in the steamy embrace of the clawfooted bath like one suspended in a dream. The candles reflected in the foggy, gilt-framed mirror were dreamy, too, their flames lazily snake-dancing to the elemental rhythm of their melting worlds. Outside in the nearly moonless dark, the wind battled in the eaves, and the house moaned in its sleep, stretched against the stones binding it to the earth, shrugged its bones.
I heard: the creek rushing on its clandestine errands, the wild geese winging against the clouds, the deer huffing alarm in the locust grove, the barefoot patter of the opossum on the porch tiles, the owl opening her golden eyes, the night sliding against the side of the house like a lover.
All this is mine, what my senses can catch, what I can feel and commune with, what I can know with my skin and my breath. All this builds worlds, births people, unleashes monsters, summons angels. All this is poetry and the magic of fine spun tales. From the lavender-scented water of my bath, I invoke the muse, and rise sheathed in golden light, and call for pen and paper. She is coming now on the moody wind…she is coming in her dark halo to tap at the window…she is here.