My Conscious Muse

There is little that escapes her
notice. Nothing too remotely
minuscule in value that she will
not make note of and neatly file
for future introspection. That leads
invariably to thoughts and words
in the language of poetry
to pry from random sightings
meanings and observations
due their happenstance, urging
all due respect to her belief
that everything has its season
and its reason. For my part,
it is to her perspicacious attention
to the minutiae of life that
I give grateful thanks, that she
has chosen to lodge herself 
deep within the vacuum of
my consciousness, obtuse at
best, but for the omnipresence
of my invaluable muse.