She strikes the keys with shaking hands
Letting the tears spill out
Trying to capture everything she is scared to lose;
To paint him
Or her
And this star-filled night
Before it dies
Before it dies
Before it dies

But, beautiful one,
The glory is not out there for you to grasp
Like sand through broken glass.
You are not subject to the magic of the muse
Or the heart-tones of his laugh.

Your magic enchants these forms against an ordinary
Gray horizon.

The light was always yours.

The exquisite power of your words is yours
And not ours to dictate,
Nor to own.

What we see bled across the paper
Isn't just the majesty of the things
You love,
But the beautiful mystery of your own, tremendous spirit and its
Giving capacity to love
Coloring an open tundra.

So write on, poets,
As you feel compelled by the music of your soul
Write on and never let anyone demean
Or control
The visions that are yours,
Built and translated through the glory of your own
Enchanted
Spirit.