I imagined that once I was surrounded
By hills of green felt and descending
Fog, that I would find the words
Settle on my tongue—
My hand would feel sure,
Clenched around a pencil,
And soft atop keys--
But I also knew, that I might
Just sit there, framed by the misted
Windows, limned in condensation,
And stare at the words that would not form.