“Mo mo, mo mo, mo mo, more” sang The Child.
Ma ma, ma ma, ma ma, make,
Me me, me me, me me, mel_low,
Mu mu, mu mu, mu mu, Muse.”
The Child was sitting on Mr. Whale; Mr. Eagle was flying back and forth to some unknown place; the lily pad was floating on the sea, and The Prophet was walking on the sea beside her.
“Mi mi, mi mi, mi mi might,”
“My my, my my, my my, myriad-minded.”
“Nice song you’re singing, Child.”
“Do you like it, Prophet?”
“It’s enchanting.“
“What’s enchanting, Prophet?”
“But why are you singing those words, Child?”
“They’re jumping around in my heart.”
“Ah,” said The Prophet.
“Prophet?”
“Yes, Child?”
“Are you my muse?”
“Why do you ask, Child?”
“Cause when you’re around I mellow.”
The Prophet chuckled.
“Which means?”
“I panic when you disappear,” The Child said.
“When panic comes, sing one of your lovely songs.”
“Do you think that will help?”
“Maybe. Try it the next time.”
The Child waited.
“Are you going to answer me?”
“Answer what, Child?”
“Are you my muse?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Cause muses make things happen.”
“Whatever made you think that?”
“I just thought…not really sure, Prophet.”
“Child, you’re myriad-minded and audacious with a dash of pertinacity, and your officiousness forced you out of your lassitude. You’re the muse that makes things happen.”
“You mean I’m all that.”
“Of course you are.”
The Child giggled; satisfied, she sang.
“Mo mo, mo mo, mo mo, more,
Ma ma, ma ma, ma ma, make,
Me me, me me, me me, mel_low,
Mu mu, mu mu, mu mu, Muse.”
Then, she stopped; her forehead crinkled; her eyebrows furrowed; she looked inquisitively at The Prophet.
“Prophet?”
“Yes, Child?”
“What’s pertinacity and officiousness?”
Shalom,
Pat Garcia
