"Rage, rage against the birthing of this darkness of gaslit words..." I stop mid-sentence. The words harden on the screen. I let them sit while the night presses closer.
midnight moon
in snow-shrouded silence
the sound of keystrokes
I hit delete and take a deep breath. I remind myself that belief—not certainty, but something felt rather than known—starts a poem. I lean into the weight of this thought and push return.
paperwhite dawn
a robin's song in and out
of my writer's block
