Not wringing words from a rag,
rather stepping out into the rain,
into the rain that will come.
Running in rain boots
down a dust-coated road
where pools of thought have gone dry,
gone to form a cloud in the sky.
Not even the weatherman knows
when the words will return,
but I am ready
when it rains.
I am drenched
by the
drops
of un-
finished
thoughts,
falling
down
again.
And I take out my pen.
