Slowly building mute frustration:
Will it ever flow again?
Sometimes words come swift and giddy;
Sometimes no ink in my pen.
Hours that turn to days, unanswered
Questions from my twitching hands.
Over time, wild space reserved for
Writing falls to life’s demands.
Nestled in warm breeze and scratchy
Grass, I sit and feel the page.
Now, on mud-cracked basin, flows a
Stream released from my mind’s cage.
Like the fractious cry that soars from
Tiny lungs first tasting air,
Words, cascading, flood me with
Relief from hope’s expectant stare.