I’m finding the only way to write my way out of writer’s block, this stubborn silence, is to write into it.
I’ve been waiting
for a poem to bloom.
It is an act of faith
to hope that behind my closed lips,
beneath the hollow throat of my silence,
the hot green heart of something
is pushing steadily upward.
In three months I’ll gather sheaves
of gladiolus, half as tall as I am.
Do pink and yellow, coral and lavendar
live furled all winter beneath cold ground?
Do they dream of July in their knobby, tight-fisted
And if I remain here, contientious in care,
watchful, trusting, will the words rise?
Will they return to me, all colors?
Lavish on their slender stems, will they be more
than I can gather and carry?
Following the thread of a word
or a phrase through May
with other good folks and