Erato's Daughter

The rain from the eaves
running in unceasing song,
and hanging in the air,
droplets of a thick mist
laden with the rich
and heady fragrance
of fresh-cut grass
and honeysuckle,
dogwood and oriental lilies,
and the wine-red roses,
which through my veins sends such a thrill
that as if drunk
my feet still wander while my mind
goes reeling out of earth,
colliding with the stars,
and thus inebriated
with the strong, rich scent
of nature's garden now refreshed,
imagination spreads its wings, taking flight,
and my pen pours forth eloquence
in words of an age-old language
I hardly thought I knew.