Eldritch tree

It is The Muse that tithes and binds

That which inspires and respires

That concerned with the transfiguration of idea into pulp and ink and matter that can be draped and used and worked over

It is the ushering of the magickal into the material

The compulsion to create without consumption

The idiosyncratic gesture of the speaker made lexicon.

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It is Old and Scarce and Secret

And it calls out to those who listen

Those who make

Those who hunger to hew new shapes unending

Those who have skipped meals, lost in their work

Those who see the colors sprouting in blank canvas

The verses unwritten in empty pages

The forms trapped in hunks of clay

And the songs unborn,

Their tintinnabulation echoing in the silence.

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Its roots and trunk spindle through time in both directions

And our many hands, infinite and outstretched,

Are its countless branches.