Somewhere between the sheets of cream-wove parchment she lay
Waiting for thought to take shape. Ripe. Full-blown. Secure.
Comfortable in the knowledge that before too long the waters
The first wail. Strong and full-throated.
Later. You held her in the crook of your arm. Ginger. Warm.
Even later. You took upon yourself the loving task of nurturing her.
Watched her grow.
Now. Strong and independent it is time for her to take her place in the world.
It isn’t easy, is it? To let go? To ‘abandon’ your muse–child, your poem?