Inspiration, that elusive nymph,

will play with you, peeking

out from shapes between clouds

to tease and tempt, before sneaking

into the lilies’ golden throats

where she hides, eventually

becoming the glint in the moon’s

sly smile until dawn when she dares

you to spy her in the birds’

crowded carnival, and then

just when you think you

have found her, she transforms

into rain’s silvery scent

until you try to capture

her with cork and bottle,

at which point she becomes

just tired, nestling into

your breast pocket where

she knows you do not

have the imagination

to look for her.