In spring, she sings of wishes and dreams. Hopes and fantasies fill one's heart. As new dreams peek through the ice, new songs are sung. The possibilities are so full and open. Newfound romances twist and spin in a whirlwind of excitement.

Summer endures with the joy of what is. The dreams have melted away to realty. Though it is not always what was dreamt of, it is what is - a joyful time of togetherness that we wish could last all our lives.

Autumn is a time of sorrow, as the good things fade away. The loss of what was good as the green of joy gives way to the uncountable hues of sadness. Such colors sing to the individual and often inspire. And while these are songs of loss, they are no less beautiful than those of hope and dreams or joy found.

The muse does not sing during the winter, for it is a time of lifeless introspection and solitude. There is no song for the artist to listen to - the cruel realties of survival fill one's heart.

There are times however, that like the groundhog, something spooks a person - a shadow haunting the recesses of the mind. A quick run back down the hole into the comforting solitude where nothing intrudes.

And such our lives are sung by the muses - spring, summer and fall. What muse spoke to me of this? I'm not sure myself - either a ghost of one that was, or will be.

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