i'm not sure it is writer's block. it just feels like writer's time off. like photographer's time off. like painter's time off. poet's time off. it feels like just opening the door and taking dictation from the day, taking it into my soul and heart and rubbing it on my skin, and letting it penetrate and ooze down and fester and cleanse all at the same time. it feels like laying in the sun with not a dab of sunscreen, letting it all in, taking it, embracing it, closing my eyes and sleeping with it, practicing unsafe art. no protection from what comes or what doesn't.
yesterday evening the fall of a bird's egg from an unseen nest,
landing unbroken on the staircase.
a pearl dropped from the heavens.
the pear tree full of baby pears but leaves gone all black.
this morning the loud song of cardinals sending happy into the sunshine,
the jingle belle cat nesting in the monkey grass, glowing white light of contentment.
my brother borrows money and i notice his hair has gone gray overnight
with the snap of time's fingers, and my heart cannot look away.
the street outside is the downhill part and kids coast by on bicycles, no helmets.
just backward turned baseball caps in the breeze.