When the rain doesn’t fall,
it’s only all right for a little while.
The planted stuff bargains with the ground.
Drawings made with brown crayons
on crumpled grocery sacks.
A constant phantom smell of burning.
When the rain doesn’t fall, and doesn’t fall,
you begin to wonder
if the wet green world you remember was a dream.
And then the rain falls.
Because the world
is forever made of water,
and doesn’t forget what it is.
(Lydia’s blog is here.)
Sometime last month, I once again tweet-lamented my writer’s block, and Lydia sent me this poem she’d written for a stuck friend. Her words struck a soul chord with me and I’m posting it here for all you writers and creatives so it strikes you too.
Meanwhile, how do YOU deal with writer’s block? Poems are welcome.