Perhaps The Muse,
the White Goddess,
Erato, Melpomene,
Rhiannon, Ceridwen,
becomes, one day,
a late middle-aged
woman with
muffin-tops,
stuffed into
yoga pants she
should know better
than to wear
in public.
No matter.
Even frumpy,
she remains
divine, alluring,
luminescent,
beyond the
constraints of
mundane fashion,
the sharp edges
of mortal flesh,
Still whispering
beauty in the
awestruck
poet's ear.
  ~mce