The air warms,
finally thawing the frost
that held my mental gears
frozen into one place,
letting words flow.
Not yet raging,
like the June torrents
coursing through the Little Cottonwood,
that I cross frequently
heading to work.
Nay, just trickles
compared to such streams,
but they flow, at last,
freed of winter's grasp,
to find pages.
Like that stream,
I know my mind
often acts when trying this,
drying up to trickles,
filling after rain.
I press on,
seeking some distant goal,
not marking flood stages reached
as the words tumble
over stony brain,
to page
finally.
8June2016 - Dyfedd Rex
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