After the Silence

141 days tiptoed past my shuttered window


their spun cotton gait a mirror of my reticence


When darkness pressed, worry devoured my muse


words withered off each fingertip, scattered petals


3,384 silent hours slid, sleek and stealthy


formless and void without frame of language


When the churning tides of this scribe’s mind became


I washed up against the writer’s concrete block wall


203,040 minutes spun out empty as gossamer


in the cavernous vacuum of my pen at rest


Until I remembered. I reached, unfurling sluggish fingers


Groping for each reluctant word, as hen gathers brood


And found a poem.



Image Credit: Image by Steve A Johnson on Pixabay, CC0,


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