I know when I've caught
the roaming genius about my garden wall,
and asked her in to dine,
I must act quickly for she works on different time.
No clock no purse calls her name,
just the sound of a voice
with no direction from whence it came.
She plays as she wishes and bids an audience near,
capture if only a moment of what she holds dear.
A quiet, pure thought,
or a long-winded run,
and all of the ways in between
she will come.
But soon as she comes,
so she will go,
back to the place
only genius can know.
And all that is left in the wake of her stay
is a newfound hope that she will
come again someday.