Disciple

    
   
   
You made a blessing of my curse in life;    
The humble scribe that gladly follows you.    
My muslin sack with cotton wadding filled,    
And scant few supplies for writing poems.    
   
I don’t mind walking with bare, naked feet,    
And seldom sleep as together we go    
Traveling under a solar eclipse,    
A ghosted new moon, or crest on the wane    
   
Holding tight to the tail of the wheel-horse;    
One of two pulling your gypsy wagon,    
As it slowly trundles the countryside,    
I’m honored to be near your influence.    
   
You make me a weaver of dreams each day,    
A windswept bearer and torch to send up    
A wreath of smoke to appease & to praise,    
A wry tendency to become willful.    
   
I am ‘free will’ even as I serve you.    
You are my bread and wine, and why I write    
With a passion to sow what you have wrought,    
Oh! the worship is mutual, my Muse.        
       
       
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