Uh-oh. Had this weird and scary experience in the dark garage this morning.
Normally words come to me in poetry; a line, a phrase, sometimes a stanza or paragraph. And by poetry, I mean a narrative that includes the imagery, the metaphors, all of it; something I can take and run with (literally, I run for the computer and let it bleed out, like a fresh cut that you’d tend to bandage, but I don’t).
But this morning, the idea is there, but not the words.
Something really good and sad about walking out, and winter being the worst time, and the leavin’ lasting for days like footprints in the snow. And even reading the tracks of memory as would an Indian scout or hunter, knowing where one had been and where they’re heading.
But I don’t have any words!
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology