into the part of my brain where my art lives
and finding it
I'm not sure if it's exhaustion
(Have I been sleeping enough?
Eight hours a night.)
Or writer's block
(I've never understood the phrase--
There's always been something there,
I just couldn't get it out right.)
Or something else entirely
(I've had times when I couldn't find the spot
the place where my art comes from
but this isn't it.)
I imagine it will come back.
She was with me this morning
He may yet visit this evening
Zie tends to come unexpectedly.
But for the moment I am