They arrive like butterflies
Wings beating like a delicate breath
Whispering in the meadow
Rising and falling in spasms
On warm breezes of fluidity
with a grace all their own.
There can be sparks
And there can be muses
The sparks are sought after
through the diligence of labor
But those muses flow in and out
Spontaneous, beautiful and free
Not to be collected, captured
and placed into jars of solitary
Where the magic always escapes.