Muse Crossing

She drops by in the dark of night. Her tantalizing whispers sculpt stanzas as I sink into my pillow. Whole poems practically form themselves as I burrow deep in blankets. It's a blessing, really. It's the opposite of writer's block, and I'm grateful! I'll savor it while I can. I'm just not thrilled about Calliope's calling hours.
It's inconvenient leaving a warm bed to jot it all down lest I forget. Which is very likely in middle age. By morning it's a good possibility I won't remember it exactly as it perfected in my head. So sometimes I resist giving in, and instead lie there for hours burning the words in my brain like a branding iron. Either way, it keeps me from precious sleep.
Why doesn't Calliope drop by during the day, instead of insisting on a pajama party? I'd make her a cup of tea and we could have a quaint ole visit.
I suppose there's no room then. My novel-filled noggin is already jammed with errands, studying and suspicious story lines. Even at night as I rest, I try to clear my cranium, but it's still quite crammed. It's never totally blank. Is anyone's?
But Callie finds a way in. She waits til day is done, when I'm feeling depleted, tiptoeing through tiny capillaries of my heavy heart. She knows when I need her the most. Because inspiration comes best after dark.