Something about the heat of the sun

What I already tried. Threatening, being
sweet. But it makes no sense. Muses can't
be captured in showy traps. To be honest.
I know it. She comes when you don't
expect her anymore. When you're on a
terrace. In the warm shade of a late Gothic
church. In the refrigerant heat of a wanton
sun. She taps you on your head. Before
you realise it. It is happening. She pours
the words over you. As comely confetti.
And I like to hug her. I want to thank her.
At least. But who is she? The waitress with
the beady eyes? The old lady on the Dutch
bike? Or does she appears to be the smell
of new grass? Freshly baked bread?
Eventually, I let the subject go. I drink my
bear, talk about football and the weather.
See how a white dove with an olive branch
in its beak flies towards Villa Nova.