Muse

 You come with a long life, I'll come with books.

We'll sit in the meadow, amongst the wildflowers so.

A breeze would blow through your hair and,

I'll wonder what led you to me.

You'll smile as you look over me

And answer The Universe.

The pages would rustle then, and in tune you would speak,

Of the wonders you have seen,

And the moment until now. 

The ink would then flow

As I drink in your every word.

Day and night we would spend in that meadow, unmoving.

The wildflowers would bloom and go back into the earth,

And yet, you would continue to speak,

Of heaven and earth, and everything in between.

The flowers would then bloom again, when you would stop with a question 

'Why do you write so?'

And I'll answer as you slip away:

'I wish to remember you, my muse, so our parting may not

 seem eternal so.'