Losing my Muse

I once lost my muse,  
who had become
enshrouded, entombed
by some darkness
of a crisp winter's eve
within the hues
of a pale moon,
 
she now was reduced
to mere whispers on winds
that barely muster
small breaths against bursts
of blustering gales.
 
Within a pond I saw her
reflection which stared
at me as if longing for years
with such desperate strain,
pulling her apart as rings
of a tree unravels one's
very identity.
 
I grasped her image in vain
then sunk some small pebbles
which rippled like waves
of some giant tsunami,
shattering her visage.
I timidly retracted,
fearing I had acted
in haste.
 
Some moments passed
when alas, she appeared
to be reborn as a newly
birthed fawn falters steps
when first setting eyes
upon this world.
 
My head then swirled with
what to do next; must have
seemed perplexed,
for my muse then
assured with
soft words,
encouraging me
to breathe deep
and seek solace within,  
 
just as woods of green  
and teeny blades
of each grass
swallow sun
that shower down
upon each tiny
blade's head.
 
I was rooted in soil
and clothed within moss,
earth now was the mother
with whom I never lost.
 
And my found-again
never-lost muse
was there too,
always musing for me
as all great muses do.