My hand won’t write, but worse than that
my mind can’t conjure up the words
that float on air like little birds.
Where’s the magician and his hat?
I’d wish that he might pull a song
from whence the furry rabbits come.
Please give me something, let me hum
a tune, a verse. It’s all so wrong
to be bereft of energy
for writing on this snowy morn.
Suppose ideas will be born
if patiently I wait? O me,
o my, I do not like this state
of wordlessness. Turn on the lamp,
light up the dark of writer’s cramp,
and fill the blankness of my slate.