My muse has taken her vacation trip
and I can’t seem to even write a blip,
a shred, a tag, a phrase, or paragraph.
She left me high and dry, and I don’t laugh

when she plays cat and mouse, these games with me.
Perhaps she’s hiding high up in a tree.
Or has she taken wing to Switzerland
to ski the snow-capped Alps so high and grand?

Exploring in the reaches of my mind
I cannot grasp what once was well-defined.
My muse sits on a mountaintop so high
while my ideas thud, refuse to fly.