the heat and i'm
sat out on the front porch.
night's still a few choruses away
and the shade's settling in
cooling things down and
bringing comfort in like it's a cool bed sheet.

my head, a mess lately and i wonder
is this the block i feared, silence internally
my writer's fingers frozen solid and nothing spilling?

it's not though, i know this. those words that breathe
inside
the ones that cover page after page and course like heat.
their there...shifting like clothes inside of a tumbled
dryer
reforming and preparing for a new season.

and i laugh, because what is this, if not the product
of such a block?
the backpedaling that plagues the silenced mind
and i am set to cast suspicion and doubt on an unruly
source.