WRITER’S BLOCK

 

One morning

he didn’t know what to write about,

so he didn’t.

He just sat in his writing chair

and let thoughts take off

like small planes.

He watched them 

as they ascended –

graceful ideas by the dozens

rising above his desk.

There were thoughts about friends,

about throwing baseballs

when he was a boy,

about making poems in the morning,

about coffee that comes

to help him.

He watched the thoughts climb

and circle away

and disappear.

He watched them

and wondered at their poise,

these thoughts

that would never be part of a poem.