Muse, that fickle wench! She deserts us from time to time. I was commiserating with a fellow poet about where we get our inspiration. We listen to music, read other poets' work or take snippets of life's events to create that inspiration.

But what if we can't find it? What if there is a serious block? What if we could go to a bank, withdraw some muse as others can withdraw money?

But then, could everyone be a poet?

This poem was written just days after the tragic shooting at Columbine High School in Columbine, Colorado. The callousness of the press angered me! I felt as though a part of me died that day and sobbing, I wrote this poem.

A friend of mine is getting divorced after months of separation. He said even though he had moved most of things out of the house he shared with his wife, he never felt that the marriage was really over until he rented a U-haul to go back to his house and move himself out. As we talked, I could see that his emotions were converging...sadness.. relief...and even a little shock that the truth of what was happening was real. This poem is dedicated to him. May he heal.

Sometimes the description to a poem is more difficult to write than the actual poem. This poem was written after the death of an intense, passionate, romantic affair. The kind that you read about in books. Of course, like fiction, they cannot be sustained. Real life intrudes. And all we are left with are memories...a silk scarf and a red rose.