Erato and Me

Why silence, Erato, old friend, Is there a thought you wish to transcend You call me a poet, how can that be For my quill be a twig and parchment a tree I paint of morning, my hopes lie ahead My words unsure, I merely sense my tread Yet, Erato, you say rhyme will give fire Rendering visions with the brush of desire May canvas be my yearn, verse my plea That passions of life e'er be ardent in me