Some days they pour forth
Like water flowing from the faucet
Into the tub.
Some days they rush and tumble onto the page
Like children cartwheeling
Across the grass.
Some days they come in great bursts
Like the end of the fireworks
On the Fourth of July.
But some days
The words trickle out
Like the last few drips
From the hose.
And some days each word feels like a blow
In a fight with the blank whiteness of the screen.
On the worst days
There are no words at all.
Only a relentless typing and deleting
Scribbling and crossing out
Giving in to someone else’s book and a cup of tea.
Today is one of those days.
I will sleep tonight and dream of words and stories and hope that tomorrow-
Tomorrow will be one of the other days,
A day where the words slip from my fingers like a silk scarf
Caught by the breeze, drifting away down the sidewalk.