flute in hand,

poring over her shelves,

seeking something diaphanous

in an outfit,

hears the cry of a blocked poet.

Racing to the paper-strewn study

on wings of thought,

she diagnoses instantly,

"Comma, not semicolon!"

And departs, still sans outfit,

a fleeting vision, and there is heard

her faint, elegaic toot

of farewell.