Inspiration often manifests itself
in a female form
poetry, prose, pretty girls
igniting creativity. 

7th grade
heart smitten
hand clenched
scrawling, attempting
to formulate the essence
of the oak tree where we met. 
Charcoal pencil
cardstock paper
smudged hands
furrowed brow
stealing glances at her face 
(call it "motivation")
increasing heartbeat
blood flowing to my 
fingertips
through the wood and onto paper.

It's cyclical...
tree trunk felled 
for pencil and paper, reincarnated
as an oak
in a marriage of the two. 
Wood reformulated,
oak leaves reaching to the sun-- 
the glowing aura of her. 

The oak tree picture
its likeness
and she--
all left behind 
in time
distance
memory. 
Years later, I feel it again:
the siren song of a muse. 

But long abandoned charcoal,
cardstock paper gone. 
Now,
I am a painter
I decorate my canvases with words
of you, for you 
the one who makes
my fingertips prolific
they fumble
searching for the path 
to a Masterpiece.

Follow streams of Thought
to discover
a reservoir
of Inspiration...

Daughter of a rocket scientist 
son of a nuclear engineer
and they begat a son

a boy
too starry-eyed to question the stars—
the way they hang in space, the fusion
that keeps them burning brightly,
or how to launch an object past them—
more concerned with the constellations
of perfect freckles found on his beloved's shoulders

a boy 
too enthralled with Existence
and describing it in artful words
to contemplate its composition
or to ponder Existence's place
on Other Worlds

a boy 
enraptured with the Changing of the Seasons—
photosynthesis and 
chloroplasts and 
planetary tilt?
Irrelevant

a boy 
who'd rather write of Love
than consider its chemical makeup
or wonder how or why it is
who'd prefer to write of leaves
dancing spirals in the breeze 
than aerodynamics and 
air resistance and
gravitational pull

a boy 
who sometimes stops 
and only ponders Science
concerning his Genetics
and wonders where it all was lost.

Say I burned and spurned and left you on your own
but in this moment, just before you cast your stone
remember, it was you who said "I want to be alone."
So, darling, play the victim as you please.
You said you wanted a reprieve...
all I did was provide you with the means.

Made of glass,
but wishing
to be tinted
and shatterproof.

If I could be beside you in this moment
I'd gather all the stars suspended over California
and shove them in a bottle
that they would cast a gentle glow
to bathe our bodies as we lie
asleep, arms entangled with ourselves
blissful lips within each other's reach
hearts beating synchronized, harmonizing,
adding to the euphony of euphoria,
the anthem of togetherness.