A path of black stones lay under my feet

and I travel along it wherever it leads,

through forest and canyon, over blue lakes

I wander along, whatever it takes.

And ever so often, an oddity

of untold wonder and intricacy

sways on this path, where nothing can grow,

how it roots on stone, I may never know.

But oft' on my path, in places so strange

is a little flower, gentle and plain,

and should I pass it, as I have before,

it will stay small and closed forever more.

But should I kneel by it along my way

and stroke its shy bud in light of warm day,

it shivers and blooms and blossoms out wide

in pink and deep red, or blue like the sky - 

petals so purple and leaves of bright green,

or orange or teal, all different sheens.

And my mind is then full of colour bright

and the black stones glow like stars in the night

and my life blooms too as I write and I sing.

Oh, how the muse is a beautiful thing.