How many times have we strolled alone, my guardian muse? I remember you well from my childhood days. On Sundays, my preacher father carried us to rural churches in the backwoods of south Georgia. After Sunday dinner at someone's house, often there would be no kids to play with and what kid wanted to sit around with adults discussing theology? It was with you, my guardian muse, that I roamed the fields and woods, mesmerized by reflections of clouds and trees in ponds. It was you, my guardian muse, who sit with me during long church services with sermons lasting well over an hour, it was you moving me from one position to another position to the angles lined up just right. It is you, oh, muse, that walks with me now as I retreat from the messy whirlwind of the world, the anger and confusion howling around. It is you that walks with me through the garden of creation.