Writer's Block
(for the 1st year anniversary of the Scriptorium)

I could not see the wood(s) for the trees,
I could not plot my path through the trunks.
I entered with the best of intentions
yet found myself in an unclear place thick with saplings
struggling towards the light, green dust floating down
and up in stencilled light.
My fingers itched.

I could not write on the trees, I could not make my own path,
The main path was elusive; paths were only other paths.
I found a pond and stared at its opaque cover.
Ducks went about their business,
water boatmen balanced their acts.
My storm hovered above their calm, my toes
burned with shame.

I walked three times around the perimeter,
I could not muster the strength to plunge
into the very heart of the matter.
I plucked leaves and rolled them like cigars.
I stared at the cracks in the bark.
My lower back was wet with sweat
and I had done nothing.

Help

Help

Help

She touched her toes, unrolled a map, chose a route, ate a snack, tracked a path, stopped to chat, took some twigs, breathed in sense, kept it clear, chose a spot, drew the links, lit a fire, wet the pen, won the time, laid the lines, wrote a text.